Wildflowers of Terezin Page 4

  His large walnut desk—the only piece of furniture to come with the study—took up most of the remaining space.

  On the wall, a framed photo of his parents with him and his younger brother could probably have used dusting. So could the ledge below his only window, which looked out over a lovely copse of elms planted along the north side of the church building. Their leaves were just beginning to reveal traces of autumn gold, and their branches supported the little bird feeder he'd hung in front of his window a couple of years ago.

  Piles of sermon notes lay scattered on his desktop. But now Margrethe had noticed something else that needed straightening.

  "Your face, Pastor! Are you all right?"

  "Quite well. Just a little, er, bicycle incident. Accident."

  She looked a little more closely as he pulled the front of his coat a little more tightly to hide his shirt.

  "I hope I don't have a bicycle accident like that," she finally told him.

  "Ja, well, I'm a little banged up, but none worse for wear.Still ready for Sunday."

  "That's good to hear." She gathered up her things. "Actually I was just finishing up. A couple more pews out in the sanctuary to clean. And the floor. I'd better go."

  He didn't ask what might be so dusty that she'd had to open his desk drawer, he just stepped aside as she shuffled past him and out the door. Well, Margrethe was always thorough.His stomach rumbled as he checked his watch.

  Two-thirty? To Steffen it felt like dinnertime, and all the more when he remembered how little food he had at home in his tiny, cold apartment, just across the street on Nørrebrogade. He thought he had a couple cans of green beans, perhaps. He could heat up one of them on his little single-burner Primus kerosene stove, along with a dry piece of pumpernickel and a mystery sausage. Or maybe a bit of pickled herring, again?

  No, he'd eaten the last of it three days ago.

  All right, then. Since eating out had become far too expensive, lately, perhaps a little diet wouldn't hurt him. If only he had something for the throbbing pain in his side where they'd stitched him up. He straightened up his open Bible and sermon notes from the corner of his desk, snapped off the light, and turned to go.

  Go back to your sermons, then.

  His brother's words had cut deeper than the glass that dug into his side.

  Stay inside your church.

  He held a hand to his forehead but the headache—like the words—would not leave him.

  That's probably where you belong, after all.

  For the first time since he'd accepted the call at Sankt Stefan's, Steffen wasn't entirely sure just where he belonged.

  5

  OFFICE OF THE GERMAN SHIPPING AGENT, KØBENHAVN

  WEDNESDAY, 22 SEPTEMBER 1943

  I know what I have to do.

  —GEORG DUCKWITZ,

  IN A JOURNAL ENTRY

  Georg hunted and pecked as well as could be expected, though if pressed he would have to admit he was as unfamiliar with the typewriter keyboard as he was with the reasoning behind Hitler's newest directive. He mumbled to himself as he composed yet another draft to his letter.

  "I fear that should the current course of action be carried out as proposed, we may find . . ."

  He paused, fingers suspended. We may find . . . what? That we have betrayed whatever shred of conscience remains in the German soul? He feared it was too late to be talking of morals now.

  "As Nietzsche would say . . ."

  He paused again. Nietzsche was a fool, in his humble opinion, but quoting him might add value to his argument with a military bureaucracy where fools and foolish dogma seemed to have taken control at every level. If they wanted Nietzsche, then, Nietzsche they would have. So he continued his letter, futile as it seemed.

  "As Nietzsche would say, that this is a matter beyond good or evil, one of pragmatism alone. My pragmatic view then is that after this past summer of strikes and troubles, I sense the Danish people require just one flimsy excuse, a spark to set this country ablaze. This action is that spark."

  He looked out his office window at the København harbor beyond. His eyes followed the waterfront, where he and his wife had enjoyed strolls before this wretched war. There the Little Mermaid stood watch over her harbor, though unfortunately this was no fairy tale. In less than two weeks, two German transport ships would take up station there, ready to transport Danmark's 7,500 Jews to a camp just north of Prague.

  Theresienstadt.

  And now nothing he wrote or said would make any difference, of that he was certain. He could quote every wretched philosopher, past or present. But why did he now bother with yet another hopeless letter of protest—especially after what he had already done to jeopardize his career? He whipped the latest sheet of onionskin paper out of the typewriter, crumpled it, and tossed it in the overflowing wastebasket at his feet. Better that he should burn the lot—and he seriously considered how he might accomplish that without drawing the attention of the København fire department.

  "Is it worth it?" he wondered aloud. And when he took off his horn-rimmed glasses to rub his tired eyes, the harbor scene blurred before him. He heard a soft knock at the door just before his secretary poked her head just inside.

  "Pardon me again, Herr Duckwitz, but are you certain you would not like me to type that letter for you? Because Herr Best—"

  "Nein, nein." He cut her off as he rolled yet another piece of paper into the typewriter with a flourish. "I'm nearly finished."

  "But sir—"

  He held up his hand. No, the last thing he wanted was for his gray-haired secretary to know what had been on his mind for the past week, ever since Werner Best had briefed him on what was to happen to Danmark's Jews.

  "This is one I'd rather do myself, Anna. I'm still thinking it through, and it would waste your time to have me stumbling about with my words. But thank you for your concern."

  "Sir, I mean to say that Herr Best is waiting on the telephone for you."

  "Oh! Why didn't you say so? Well, tell him I'm not . . ."Duckwitz paused for a moment before changing his mind."All right, then. I'll take it."

  He stared at the telephone on his desk for as long as he dared, then sighed and picked it up, as if he had no idea who was on the other end of the line.

  "Shipping Agent Duckwitz here."

  "Georg!" Werner Best's voice boomed over the telephone, causing Duckwitz to hold the receiver away from his ear several centimeters. "Glad to hear your voice. You are here in the city, are you not?"

  "Of course, Herr Reichsbevollmächtigter." He nearly choked on the pretentiously overlong title, which seemed quite overweight even in the language so used to lengthy compound names. Plenipotentiary of the Reich. The man who ruled Danmark's affairs with the gravity and certainty of a Roman emperor, reporting only to Hitler himself. "I'm right here in my office, as always."

  "Glad to hear it." It could have been a friendly challenge, nothing more. Georg couldn't quite tell from the tone of the other man's voice. "It's just that you've been gone quite a bit, lately. How was Berlin, by the way?"

  "Berlin?" Duckwitz did his best to hold his voice steady.Perhaps everyone knew he had been to Berlin. He just hoped not everyone knew why. "Yes, Berlin was . . . busy as always."

  "But they didn't listen to you."

  "Listen to me? I'm afraid I don't—"

  "Georg, Georg. It's no secret you've opposed the evacuation plan. I know that you went there to lobby for a change."

  Duckwitz swallowed hard. If Best knew that much, perhaps he'd also found out about his recent trip to Stockholm and the secret agreement he'd brokered with the Swedes to accept thousands of Jewish refugees, should the need arise.That trip, however, had not been on his official docket.

  "Georg?" For a moment Best sounded far away. "Are you there?"

  "I'm here, ja. Perhaps the connection is not so good."

  If only it wasn't.

  "Ah, well, as I was saying, frankly I was concerned to hear that you'd taken it upon yo
urself to go to Berlin. Some people said that in so doing you displayed a certain degree of . . . disloyalty."

  If he knew where else I'd been this past week. Surely he would not have to impose upon the goodwill of the Swedes for his own safety and that of his wife. But he knew the worst could happen, and the thought of escape did cross his mind.Duckwitz swallowed hard as the other man continued.

  "Me? The thought never crossed my mind. You're a loyal party member. But, you know, in a way I'm glad you were able to hear all the facts straight from the Führer. That puts your mind at rest, does it not?"

  Duckwitz didn't pause long enough to let the other man wonder about his muddied allegiance, though he felt his stomach turning at how much Werner Best knew about his trip, about its purpose . . . even with whom he had spoken.

  "Absolutely it does." He hoped he'd added the appropriate dose of enthusiasm.

  "I'm gratified to hear you say that. Then you needn't worry anymore about whether this is the best course of action. I mean to say, the only course of action, ja?"

  The man was so obviously probing for weakness, for a white flag. He would receive it.

  "Ja," replied Duckwitz, "the Führer was very clear to say that the idea of Jews walking around Danmark free was reprehensible and must be stopped. So Danmark shall be judenrein, cleared of every last Jew, very shortly. We are all committed to that."

  "Wonderful, wonderful. We'll discuss more details tomorrow.But this success will be a highlight in your service to the Reich."

  Or the most shameful thing I would ever accomplish. Duckwitz remained silent and kept his thoughts to himself.

  "Oh, and Georg, I needn't mention the critical and confi- dential nature of these plans?"

  "Of course, Herr Reichsbevollmächtigter. I understand completely."

  Duckwitz wondered if there was technically a difference between understanding confidentiality and actually protecting it.

  "Excellent, then, Georg. I have every confidence in you.Always have."

  "And I in you, sir."

  Naturally Werner Best would not know they still held two entirely divergent views as to how Danmark's Jews might be evacuated, or to where they might be taken.

  Georg Duckwitz prayed Best would never find out.

  6

  HANNE ABRAHAMSEN'S APARTMENT, BISPEBJERG HOSPITAL

  FRIDAY, 24 SEPTEMBER 1943

  In Jewish history there are no coincidences.

  —ELIE WIESEL

  Hanne finally retreated to her apartment at the end of her shift plus two long hours of overtime. Once inside, she leaned back on the front door with sigh, clicked the deadbolt shut, and kicked off her sensible nurse's shoes.

  A glance at her watch told her she'd missed the nightly news program, but she was too exhausted for bad news.Instead she located one of her favorite records, slipped it onto the player, and collapsed onto her small couch to the sound of Artie Shaw's "Begin the Beguine."

  Ja, that's better, she told herself, allowing a small sigh. As she rubbed her throbbing feet she looked up at the window and did her best to avoid the pang of guilt as the music continued.Yes, but with the mandatory blackout shade drawn, what good would it do to light the two traditional Sabbath candles, anyway? At least she kept them on the windowsill— a symbol of her tattered allegiance to the religious customs that had framed her childhood.

  In her mind's eye she imagined her mother standing before four candles at home, faithfully lighting them no later than eighteen minutes before sundown every Friday evening. As Mor had reminded Hanne and her younger sister, Marianne, so many times when they were young, the first signified zakhor, remembering the Sabbath, as they had been commanded in Exodus 20.

  "What do the Scriptures command us?" their mother had asked, and Marianne was always the first to eagerly recite the verse:

  "But the seventh day is a Sabbath to the Lord. . . . On it you shall not do any work, you or your son, or your daughter, your male servant, your female servant."

  "How about your female nurse?" Hanne asked the darkness.

  Meanwhile the phonograph's needle swept in a dizzy arc through the center of the record, back and forth, popping and hissing past the end of "Begin the Beguine." She flipped through her sizable record collection in the wooden crate on the floor, added to since she was a young teen. Perhaps "It Ain't Necessarily So" or "Jeepers, Creepers" might put her in a better mood. She liked the Americans, Benny Goodman and Duke Ellington. But in the end she sighed, lifted the arm back to its cradle, and snapped off the phonograph.

  If only Marianne could have joined her here, Hanne would have gladly lit a candle for her sister's sake. She looked back across the shadows to the small framed photograph on her bookshelf, next to the phonograph. Two young girls in pinafore dresses smiled at the camera for the occasion of Hanne's eleventh birthday, just days before Marianne had died.

  "And what about this candle?" The memory of Hanne's mother thankfully interrupted, after all these years, still probing the young sisters for a better answer to the weekly Sabbath quiz. Marianne would answer first, as always, once more.

  "The second reminds us of shamor," she would say in her bright little voice. "To keep. To guard."

  That was the right answer, yes, week after week. But who had kept and guarded her little sister, after all? Who had guarded her against what had happened?

  Even after all these years Hanne fought back tears as she closed her eyes. She wished she could not see her mother carefully lighting each candle, waving her hands across their rising heat three times as if to welcome the Sabbath, then covering her face with her hands to hide from the light before reciting the blessing:

  Barukh atah Adonai eloheinu melekh ha-olam . . .

  Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the universe, who sanctified us with His commandments and commanded us to kindle the Sabbath candles.

  Perhaps yes, this King of the universe had commanded them to observe the seventh day. And she might have, if Adonai had kept His end of the bargain. Now she found herself standing once again and looking down at the cold candles, mindful of just how far she had come since her growing-up years on Schacksgade, when she and her parents and Marianne would bundle up against cold December rains and walk together through Ørsteds park and across busy Nørre Voldgade to the Friday evening service at the synagogue on Krystalgade. Summers were much better. The only thing she didn't like back then was how long she had to wait before they returned home to the Sabbath meal, when her father recited a brief Kiddush prayer and they were finally free to eat.

  "Well, I'm starving." She dismissed the memories with a wave of her hand, mindful of just how much it looked like her mother's, over the candles. She paused to wonder. Perhaps it wouldn't hurt to light just one, just to bring a little cheer to her small studio apartment. No one would see it from the outside.So she struck a single match to light one of her candles.Just one. Anything more, and it might appear she was giving in once again to the lopsided bargain of a God who seemed to demand everything and yet gave so little in return.

  Just for the warmth, she assured herself. For the atmosphere.Hygge, they called it, and the concept applied to everything from the knit cushion covers for the older upholstered chair in the corner of her tiny den, to the lovely lace curtains she'd received from her grandmother. Everything should add to the atmosphere. That was the Danish way.

  The roses, however, were an entirely different matter. She had no idea how Aron had even come upon them during these days of ration cards, riots, and food shortages. How much had it cost him, with scarce kroner that would better be spent on something a little more practical?

  Even so, with a pair of scissors she trimmed their stems and replaced them in the vase, granting another day or two of life. Funny how they smelled of nothing, though. Not of spring, or summer, or distant golden fields out of reach of this embattled city, occupied by foreign troops with ugly gray uniforms and grim, hard expressions.

  Barukh atah Adonai . . .

  Her mother'
s words still echoed as Hanne's lone Sabbath candle sputtered for a moment before catching its full flame, as if considering whether it actually wanted to remember, or not. Hanne would remember, though on her terms.

  She stood alone in the chilly apartment, waiting for the clang of the radiators to warm the evening. Meanwhile she kept her knit sweater on and huddled in the lone light of her single Sabbath candle, unorthodox as it was and not lit with the necessary prayer. And despite it all, her mind drifted to the thought of the pastor, Steffen, wondering how he was doing and if all his injuries were healing.

  "Hanne! Phone call!"

  She jumped when Kirsten knocked on the door, but didn't answer right away. She and her neighbor often traded nursing shifts, but Kirsten spent most of her time with a boyfriend in town. Despite the eight p.m. curfew, Hanne thought it funny that she would be in tonight and here to answer the single phone down the hall. Maybe she'd been waiting for a call herself.

  "Hanne! You in there? I think it's your boyfriend."

  Still Hanne didn't answer, just watched the glow of the candle as Kirsten knocked one more time.

  "I'm going to tell him you're out with Dr. Kielsgaard tonight."

  Hanne had to smile. Was that the best Kirsten could come up with? Dr. Kielsgaard had to be the shortest doctor on staff, with a mousy little voice and a crooked smile that only a mother could love. Or a wife. As it happened, Dr. Kielsgaard was also happily married with three young children.

  Fortunately that was Kirsten's last effort, as Hanne heard her neighbor mumble something else and pad back down the hallway. So Aron was probably wondering why Hanne hadn't showed up at Sabbath services once again. This time her well-used excuse that she wasn't feeling well might not hold up as much as it had before. But she simply could not bear the thought of going through the motions with Aron and her family, once again. Please, no.