For Such a Time (10 page)

 11 

Mordecai had a cousin named Hadassah, whom he had brought up because she had neither father nor mother.

Esther 2:7

M
ONDAY
, F
EBRUARY
28, 1944

W
alk faster!”

Morty felt a hard shove at his back and he staggered, losing his grip on the bundle of wood. Without thinking, he turned to glare at the perpetrator—and received a blow to the head that drove him to his knees.

“Your days grow short, Elder.” Hatred infused Captain Hermann’s tone. “Soon you’ll grovel for me. I’ll make you eat that Jew pride.”

Morty didn’t dare speak as he gathered up the fallen kindling and struggled to rise. He plodded through the snow, sensing Hermann close on his heels. His big feet cramped inside a tight pair of shoes while the bitter cold morning stiffened his joints. And if that wasn’t bad enough, now his head ached where the coward had struck him.

A black Mercedes drove into the ghetto. Morty forgot his discomfort and watched the car halt in front of the old barracks.

The commandant exited first, his imposing height a full head taller than the two SS guards piling out from opposite doors. Emerging next was a slender woman in black wool; her familiar red hair drew a splash of color against the dismal black-and-white scene.

What was the zoineh doing here? Morty had lain awake the night before mulling over the evening’s events. Each time he came to the same conclusion—that she’d purposely created their much-needed diversion.

The zoineh and her group of SS walked to the front entrance of the barracks. Morty decided to follow, increasing his pace toward a door at the back.

SS-
Untersturmführer
Brucker blocked his passage. Nearly as tall as the commandant, the lanky second lieutenant’s inky black hair stuck out from the edges of his cap. “What do you want, Jude?”

As if it wasn’t obvious! Morty hid his disgust. “I must replenish the fires inside.”

“Let him pass, Lieutenant.”

“Herr Captain.” Brucker acknowledged Hermann over Morty’s head and opened the door.

Inside, the blast of heat nearly buckled Morty’s numbed joints. Barrel fires rigged on wooden planks above the floor quickened the drying of the concrete below.

He spotted the redhead at the front door of the building. A quick glance behind him confirmed that Hermann was still speaking with his lieutenant. Morty hugged his bundle of wood and shuffled across the planks in her direction.

She gripped the commandant’s sleeve while she picked her way through the debris. She also clutched a notepad and pen. A secretary? Morty eyed her more closely, working to reform his first impression. In daylight she seemed more frail than slender.
When she glanced up, he noted her face, stark and bloodless beneath that blaze of red hair.

His heart lurched in his chest as he scrutinized her blue eyes . . . the high cheekbones . . . the way she pursed that expressive mouth . . .

His beloved maideleh!

Bracing his feet against the plank, Morty tried to steady himself. He’d almost given up hope of finding her, yet it
was
Hadassah—he felt it in every nerve and fiber of his being.

His euphoria died as he took stock of her wan complexion, and the fragility that seemed to shroud any youth or exuberance.
What have they done to you, daughter?

His throat worked as he realized why she might need to wear what was now obviously a wig. He imagined her beautiful blond head shorn beneath the red strands. A thousand questions rose in his heart. Where had she been before this? How long since she’d left Heidelberg? And why was she with the commandant? Was she his secretary . . . or his mistress?

Morty ground his teeth. Must she sell her body to a Nazi in order to stay alive?

The commandant and his party mounted the planks, making their way to the east side of the building where Morty stood. His pulse pounded as he lumbered forward to close the distance as much as he dared.

The commandant leaned close to speak with Hadassah, and Morty tensed—until he noted the SS officer’s gentleness with her. Apparently the man had rid himself of last night’s rage.

His maideleh seemed unafraid of the colonel, as well. Her head dipped in concentration as she scribbled away on her pad of paper.

Feeling marginal relief, Morty continued to drink in the sight of his beloved niece, quenching his parched heart. It had been so long. Would she be able to recognize him—

Pain exploded in his skull from the unexpected blow.

“Jude
Schwein
!” Hermann snarled. “You dare to stare at that woman?”

Morty groaned and dropped to his knees, still clutching the kindling. His punishment would be worse if the wood fell into the wet concrete.

“Insolent filth!” Hermann raised his fist for another blow.

“No!” Stella shouted. She remembered all too well similar beatings when she’d been the victim. She turned to the colonel. “Please, make him stop!”

He stared at her, his eyes clouded with anger. “Captain,” he finally called out, “if you knock the Jew into the wet concrete, it will require more time to cure. Time we do not have.”

She drew back at his callousness. He winked at her. “You’ve also upset my secretary. Now I must repeat my dictation.”

Hermann left the fallen old man and came forward. “Herr Kommandant, I apologize for the disruption.” He flashed a derisive glance at Stella. “But it is necessary to keep discipline among the prisoners.”

“What wrong did that man do to deserve your ‘discipline,’ Herr Captain?” Stella challenged him directly. She knew she played a dangerous game, but in the face of such cruelty she refused to back down.

Hermann’s eyes narrowed. “He looked at you, Fräulein.”

“That’s a crime?”

“No prisoner is allowed to look upon an
Aryan
woman.”

His emphasis on the word made her edge closer to the colonel. She hadn’t forgotten Hermann’s inquisition of the previous night. “I see no harm—”

“Enough!” The colonel shoved her behind him and advanced on Hermann. “You’re bordering on surly, Captain. Dismiss the Jew so we can concentrate on more important matters. Major Lindberg promised laborers from Litomerice, but Berlin will also supply a shipment of fresh Jews for our Red Cross visit. That train arrives Friday—leaving only four days to make preparations.

“General Feldman of the Wehrmacht will be here a week from today to inspect our readiness. I rely on you, Captain, to impress him with this efficiency you boast about. See that he leaves here with a satisfactory report.”

“Jawohl, Herr Kommandant.”

Peering around the colonel’s shoulder, Stella had a moment’s unobstructed view of the prisoner before Hermann barked his dismissal. Struggling to his feet, the old man stole another glance at her.

Then he smiled.

Awareness electrified her; she swayed, grabbing for the colonel’s sleeve. Her eyes darted to the prisoner’s shoes. Huge . . .

“Fräulein?”

Stella all but ignored the colonel, for she couldn’t stop staring at her uncle. Morty’s honey-brown eyes were shadowed in hollow sockets, and his aquiline nose perched like a beak between sunken cheeks. Only his smile remained the same, and his enormously large feet!

“Stella, what’s wrong?”

As the colonel gripped her shoulders, Stella forced her attention back to him, scouring her mind for a plausible excuse. The truth would be fatal.

Fumes billowed from the fire pits, coloring the air in white haze. “It’s the smoke.”

“Let’s go outside.”

He led her back toward the door, but not before she shot a final look at Morty, wanting assurance that he escaped before Hermann cornered him again.

Her uncle ambled to the rear door of the building, his shoulders straight, his gait marked with a perceptible bounce. Love welled inside her. He’d recognized her, too.

The cold, clean air outside offered little relief to Stella’s real distress. Morty looked starved and beaten; no doubt Hermann took his fists to her uncle regularly. She fought back her frus
tration as the colonel supported her shoulders, leading her to the car. “Breathe deeply, Stella,” he said. “You’ll feel better in a moment.”

She jerked away from him. “You’re always telling me that, Herr Kommandant.”

“If you showed more sense than a turkey, I wouldn’t have to, would I?” he snapped. “For example, provoking my captain—especially after what happened last night.”

He opened the car door and retrieved her coat. “You surprised me in there, braving his wrath to champion an old Jew.” His harsh tone lessened as he helped her shrug into the heavy black wool. “But then you’re partial to them, aren’t you? You said that you were raised by Jews.”

Before she could form a response, he turned her around and buttoned the top edges of her coat. “In future, you must tread carefully with Captain Hermann. The man’s an arrogant cur. You saw his rage when he looked at you.”

Afterward he grabbed his brass-topped cane from the back seat of the car and slammed the door. Stella longed to defend her earlier actions but knew she didn’t dare. “I’ll be more careful,” she said.

“I won’t always be there to keep him on a leash. I promised you last night, if he touches you again, in any way, I
will
kill him.” He grasped her chin. “Remember that when you next decide to bait the bear.”

Despite his censure, he leaned in close. Stella felt his warm breath against her cheek, smelled the faint Kaffee lingering from his breakfast and the woodsmoke from the fires that permeated his coat. Afraid to encourage him, to trust her own reaction in return, she held perfectly still.

“I won’t
take
anything, Stella. That’s my promise to protect you,” he whispered. “But I want everything you’re willing to give.”

She heard the longing in those words and felt blood pounding
in her ears. He wanted her kiss, and this time she was in danger of giving it to him.
You’re a traitor, Hadassah.

She quickly pulled away. “We . . . we can go back inside now. I’m feeling much better.” Her voice shook, and she wondered if he noticed.

His rueful smile failed to mask his regret. “I think we’ve seen enough of the barracks. Are you warm enough?”

She nodded as she fished in the pockets of her coat for gloves.

“I’ll get the captain so we can continue our inspection.” He brushed her chin with his thumb before leaving.

Stella watched him go, her despair at Morty’s situation warring with her growing attraction toward the man responsible. Had God planned this new anguish to replace the physical torment she’d suffered at Dachau? And how could she possibly help her uncle?

Stella thought of her promise to Joseph. How naïve to think she could leave this place.

She jammed her hands into the gloves, then surveyed the ghetto. Like a picture postcard, the city rose among cobbled streets swept clean of snow. Storefronts freshly painted and draped beckoned imaginary shoppers to their doors. Park benches and wrought-iron tables and chairs framed the town’s Colonial-style square, while streetlamps blazed cheerily in the morning’s gray light.

A handful of prisoners had ventured out into the cold dawn. They wore dirty, threadbare clothes, and flocked and disbanded in the square like fractious birds. A few were content to perch on the shiny new benches; others hovered at the fringes, beneath the freshly mended doorways of shops and
Gasthäuser
. A dozen ragged children played under a slush-lined stairway. A pair of women pulled a handcart filled with cans of paint, roofing materials, and lumber.

She quietly ached for them. How absurd they all looked,
like mourners at a wedding. Their somber presence cast a pall over the bright new city. But it wasn’t so bright and new, was it?

Joseph had told her the truth, that beneath Theresienstadt’s façade—quaint prosperity—lay dirty, straw-filled stalls crammed with too many Jews. Dysentery preyed on the elderly and weak, while hunger preyed on everyone else. This city that held her uncle and thousands more behind its bastioned walls merely wore a disguise, the sound of a hammer’s distant pounding proof the masquerade was being set into place.