For Such a Time (12 page)

“Because, Joseph, I’ve given you my life.”

He swallowed, his attention riveted on her.

“It’s in your hands,” she said softly. “It has been from the moment you learned Morty was my uncle. I am Mischling, half Jewish, and he’s the only family I have left. It’s a miracle I found him here, of all places.” She seemed to hesitate, then added, “I carry false papers. And like you, I live on borrowed time.

“Now, you can keep these secrets safe in your heart . . . or you can use them as a weapon to hurt me.” She searched his face. “Will you trust me?”

Joseph hesitated, then blurted, “But why did you have to kiss
him
?”

She seemed confused for a moment, before her expression cleared. “You mean Captain Hermann? I think you already know the answer to that. You needed the distraction.” She made a face. “Believe me, it was awful. I only did it to help you,
kaddishel
.”

Baby son
. Only his mama had ever called him that.

The black cloud vanished, and he launched himself at her. She held him close, whispering soft words against his cheek the way his mama used to.

She had saved him the night of the party. “I’ll never tell your secret,” he promised. His voice shook, but he didn’t care.

When she finally released him, he sat on the bed beside her and began his own confession. “On Tuesdays and Fridays, Herr Kommandant lets five Jews collect firewood for his hearth from the woods behind the house. They leave it at the kitchen door. If there’s a message for me, it’s always stuffed into one end of a piece of wood.”

“Clever . . . and dangerous,” she said.

He saw her worry and scoffed. “Not too dangerous, since I’m in charge of the wood.” He didn’t add that Morty helped him with that part of the plan.

“Can you send messages back?”

He nodded. “Herr Kommandant gives the leftovers from his table to the Jews who collect wood. Helen always gives them a loaf of fresh bread, too.” He grinned. “She bakes my messages inside the dough.”

“Helen? She’s involved in this?”

He nodded again, enjoying her astonished look. Then his conscience made him add, “She doesn’t know about the notes that come to the house, just the ones that go out. I told her I need to send messages to my sick grandma in the ghetto so she knows I’m all right. Helen helps me.”

“What grandmother, Joseph? You lied, didn’t you?”

Her voice cut into him like Herr Kommandant’s razor. He
nodded a third time, his skin feeling hot and prickly beneath her stare. He was relieved when she asked, “Is Helen Jewish?”

“All I know about her is that she came here with Herr Kommandant.” Joseph tried to think of something to add, then brightened. “And sometimes she gives me extra dessert to take to my room.”

“I’ll remember that.” He saw her smile before she chewed on her lip. Then she asked, “How soon before you need my message for Morty?”

“Thursday night. That way Helen has time to bake the bread.”

“Will she know it’s my letter?”

Again he saw her worry. “She’ll think it’s for my grandma. She won’t read it.”

“I’ll have my letter ready by tonight.”

“Give it to me when I come and get you for supper at seven.” Joseph heard a faint clanging downstairs and glanced toward the door. “I have to go. Helen’s watching at the kitchen window for Herr Kommandant. He left with Captain Hermann an hour ago. She thinks I’m playing upstairs.”

Again his face felt hot as he stood and fished a handful of colored marbles from his pants pocket. “I told her to bang on her kitchen pots when he returns.”

“Be careful, little man.”

He liked it when she worried about him. “You and me’ll look out for each other,” he said.

“That’s a promise.”

She caught him and gave him a quick hug before he headed toward the door. As he turned the handle, he remembered to call back, “Don’t forget to flush the note.”

———

Once he’d left, Stella rushed into the bathroom with the scrap of paper. Locking the door, she removed her clothes and stepped into the shower, turning on the water and aiming the spigot against the wall. Her fingers shook as she unfolded the note penciled in Morty’s familiar scrawl.

Daughter,

God has surely answered my prayers, for He has brought you back to me. Please know I am well and have been here since I was first taken from Mannheim. I’m overjoyed you are safe. The new commandant must treat you kindly—I could tell by the way he championed your cause against Hermann, that horse’s behind, whose treatment of us is abominable. And I know it was you, my sweet maideleh, who kissed that evil snake to save us all from disaster on the night of Herr Kommandant’s party.

I will write again soon. I do not understand fully how you serve the commandant, but don’t be discouraged by your circumstances. Earthly hearts cannot always fathom divine reasoning. Remember we live not in our time, but in God’s.

Keep your faith, Hadassah. You will be our salvation.

M.

Scanning the cramped lines, Stella felt a mix of joy and anguish. Last night she’d wondered if the old man in the ghetto was her uncle and not just a vision conjured from her longing. Now, seeing his words, hearing his voice on paper, she knew he was alive.

She left the shower, toweled dry, and slipped back into her clothes. Holding the note over the toilet, she intended to heed Joseph’s warning, but then hesitated. The handwriting on the back of a torn envelope was the only tangible link to family she had left. Would she see him again? Or would Hermann beat him to death at the next opportunity?

Taking a deep breath, Stella tried to calm her runaway fear. Perhaps her uncle would live, if for no other reason than to choose the next trainload of Jews bound for Auschwitz. How he must suffer! She couldn’t imagine that kind of burden. Yet
his belief in God remained strong.
Keep your faith, Hadassah. You will
be our salvation.

Morty had explained to her early on the precepts of faith and salvation. After she’d lost both parents in an automobile accident, her uncle had taken on the responsibility of her spiritual needs as well as her material ones. He taught that God offered deliverance to those with true faith, the same faith that made Jews indomitable, like the boy David conquering Goliath with a sling and a well-placed stone.

Stella held that belief once—they all had, at one time or another. But days of terror turned into weeks, and then months, until salvation took the guise of tired arguments from old rabbis looking as gaunt and lice-ridden as the rest of them in the concentration camp.

Doubt drove a wedge into her convictions like a needle pricks the skin, before anger festered in its place, each day their captors were allowed to rise out of bed to torment them. Each hour hunger and typhus swept through their numbers like a brush fire. When a child was torn from its mother’s arms, and a little girl murdered in front of a bloodstained wall during the coldest part of winter . . .

Was that when she’d given up? Stella thought of the watercolor in her room and another little girl, lying amidst colorful flowers in a floppy-brimmed hat. Her eyes burned. What kind of salvation let monsters destroy children? What horrible sin had an eight-year-old girl committed to warrant such an end?

She reread the note.
You will be our
salvation
. Morty believed the words. He wouldn’t have risked them in a letter otherwise.

Her uncle was right about one thing. The colonel
had
championed her. And because she’d worn some obstinate look she couldn’t recall, he’d brought her here to this house. She was very much alive, eating good food, wearing warm clothes . . . and struggling with emotions beyond simple gratitude.

Was God leading her in this, or was she merely a Maus awaiting
the cat’s final pounce? Aric von Schmidt was a Nazi, she was a Jew, and their kiss had been . . . ?

Stella touched her lips, reliving the memory. No monster’s kiss, just a man’s, who in brief moments revealed his compassion and his sorrow. A soldier burdened by his past—and it seemed, his future. Could he change? Would she be the one to change him?

Stella shredded the note and flushed it down the toilet.

 13 

And Mordecai came into the presence of the king. . . .

Esther 8:1

W
EDNESDAY
, M
ARCH
1, 1944

Y
ou could get shot for speaking such nonsense!” Yaakov Kadlec whispered.

“It’s true, I tell you.” Morty shifted his rusted milk pail from one hand to the other. He glanced back at the hungry faces behind them as he and Yaakov stood in line for their turn at the day’s ration of soup. “You just refuse to believe. My maideleh will save us.”

“Pah! She’d save us, all right,
if
she were your niece and
if
she wasn’t consorting with Nazis.” They shuffled forward a few steps. “Your foolishness will get that boy Joseph into real trouble. They’ll probably shoot him before the day is out, once he gives your note to her!”

“She saved our necks at the party. Why would she do that, I ask you? Joseph could have died because of your half-baked plan to steal food from beneath the Kommandant’s nose.”

“
Our
plan,” Yaakov snapped. “Yours and mine, remember?”

Morty ignored him. “I tell you, it
is
her.” He hugged the pail to his bony chest, conjuring the precious memory that had warmed him the past two days: Hadassah’s clear blue eyes gazing
at him from across the barracks. He glanced at his friend. “I stake my life on it.”

“And ours, as well!” Yaakov pinched the bridge of his bulbous nose. “
Oi
, I think we’ll all be shot before this day is over!”

“Lower your voice! Do you want Brucker to hear?” Morty nodded toward the lanky SS officer strolling past the line of Jews outside the ghetto’s kitchen. The lieutenant’s baleful gaze speared them from beneath his black cap as he supervised their feeding.

“Even if such a coincidence is possible and this woman
is
your niece,” Yaakov said more softly, “how can she help us . . . or poor Leo? I’m sure the commandant keeps her dancing attendance on him both day
and
night.”

“She’s his secretary, nothing more!” Morty cried, forgetting Brucker’s presence. It was bad enough she was with the Nazi; he couldn’t bear the thought she might have to barter more than her professional skills in order to stay alive.

Yaakov laid a hand on his shoulder. “Ja, Morty. His secretary.”

“She survives, Yaakov. Like we all do.” Morty felt beaten. Yaakov’s words only served to underscore his own fears, and his doubt. Leo Molski still languished in the infirmary, too weak to leave his bed. The food from Herr Kommandant’s banquet hadn’t helped their friend’s condition. All that risk for nothing! How could one young girl manage to save them?

He bowed his head, drawing a deep breath.
Give me
strength, Lord.

“Anyway, I doubt the Kommandant will grant her any special favors. He’s a Nazi, after all,” Yaakov insisted as they edged forward.

Morty glanced up. “But he
has
developed a fondness for her. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.” He hated the words, but they needed to be spoken.

Yaakov shot him a dubious look. “So?”

“At least she’s in a position far better than our own.”
And a precarious one,
Morty thought. He tried to cast off his anxiety,
knowing he was in no position to help her. “God will reveal His truth in good time. You’ll see. She will be our salvation.”

The line shifted again and they reached the kitchen and their turn at the soup pot. Warmth from the cooking fires thawed Morty’s frozen limbs. Yaakov thrust out his bowl, an old tin-rations can. “When next you speak to God, Morty, will you ask Him to fill my bowl with hot beef stew instead of the usual spoonful of potato broth?”

While he spoke, Mrs. Brenner, the ghetto’s assigned cook, ladled a pitiful dollop of grayish liquid from an enormous cast-iron pot into Yaakov’s can.

He stared into the murky contents. “No potato skins, Mrs. Brenner? Surely you can give me at least one, since I braved the cold to dig them up.”

The thin, hawk-nosed woman snorted. “I cook the soup, Yaakov Kadlec. I ladle it. Who does or doesn’t get potato skins I leave to God. Besides,” she added with a sneer, “I heard you ask Him for beef stew.”

“Curb your tongue, woman,” Yaakov retorted. “I want—”

“
Achtung!”

The three turned in unison at the command. Sergeant Grossman flashed his silver hook as he cleared the way, allowing the commandant to enter.

All heads swiveled to gape at the unexpected guest in their kitchen.

“Herr Kommandant, you honor us. Heil Hitler!” A surprised Lieutenant Brucker offered a stiff salute from a few feet inside the doorway.

“Heil Hitler, Lieutenant . . . Brucker, isn’t it?” The commandant dismissed him, then turned his attention to the line of people waiting to eat. As if one body, they dropped their gazes to the ground. Everyone except Morty—he continued to eye the tall man in the greatcoat, this Nazi who held the fate of his niece.

“What is that stench?” The commandant turned to Brucker and wrinkled his aquiline nose. “Rotten potatoes?”

“Jew food, Herr Kommandant.”

“Show me this . . . food.” The commandant strolled to the front of the line while Brucker hastened ahead, shoving at the throng to clear a path. Grossman stayed close.

Yaakov clutched his soup can, staring into it reverently. Mrs. Brenner stood beside the large cauldron, her ladle held loosely as she too dropped her gaze at the commandant’s approach.

Morty refused to miss any of it, even at the risk of punishment. He watched the commandant lean slightly to take a whiff of the soup. His lips curled back in obvious disgust. “You, what’s your name?” he asked the cook.

“Erna Brenner, Herr Kommandant, 145892,” she whispered, head still bent.

“Yes, well, Erna Brenner, give me that spoon.”

Mrs. Brenner obeyed and nearly thrust it at him. He dipped the ladle, stirring the contents of the pot. A hush fell over the kitchen while he examined the soup and the doubtless gray globs resembling potato skins that floated on top.

Morty hardly dared to breathe.

“Lieutenant, come here.”

The commandant’s terse order broke the stillness. Brucker rushed to his side. The commandant ladled a spoonful of broth and held it under the lieutenant’s nose. “Taste this.”

Brucker’s eyebrows raised in alarm. “But, Herr Kommandant—”

“Taste it!”

White-lipped above his flaccid jaw, Brucker took the ladle and sipped at the concoction.

“All of it, Lieutenant,” the commandant barked.

Brucker downed the entire spoonful. Then he gagged, doubled over, and threw up on the floor. Gasping, he straightened and wiped a sleeve across his mouth. His gray eyes shot pure hatred at the commandant.

The man in the greatcoat seemed unaffected. “I have a Red Cross delegation arriving in a week, Lieutenant Brucker. Your responsibility is to keep the prisoners looking fit and well cared for—at least until our guests depart. Make certain these people have ample, decent food, even if it comes from our own stores. If I find a repeat of the Jews eating this pig slop on my next inspection, the entire SS enlistment will eat it with them. Have I made myself clear?”

“Jawohl, Herr Kommandant.”

“You smell, Lieutenant. Go clean yourself.”

Brucker’s fury suffused his pale features. Clicking the heels of his vomit-stained boots, he stormed from the kitchen.

The commandant also turned to leave when his attention shifted to Morty. A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “You again. I might have known.”

Morty thought him a handsome man, one with impeccable authority. Did he also have a conscience? Gratitude warred with his outrage at the possibility his niece was being used unfairly.

Yet as he glanced at his people, their hungry faces drawn, eyes shadowed in despair, he wondered if Hadassah was so much worse off. He turned back to the man in the greatcoat and said boldly, “Thank you, Herr Kommandant.”

Beneath the brim of his peaked cap, the commandant raised a brow. Morty detected in his eyes a glimmer of . . . could it be warmth? “Thank my secretary, old man,” he said, then abruptly departed the kitchen with Grossman.

A slow smile spread across Morty’s face as he heard Yaakov mutter to Mrs. Brenner, “She will be our salvation!”

“Good afternoon, Fräulein.”

Hermann strolled out of the colonel’s office toward Stella’s desk. Her fingers froze on her typewriter keys. She’d left the
room for only a minute. How had he managed to slip by her? “Do you need something, Herr Captain?”

He flashed his teeth at her. “What are you offering?”

Stella ignored his innuendo. “Typing . . . ?”

“As a matter of fact . . .” He hefted a burlap sack onto her desk. “I need these cards typed into numbered lists. Two copies each, one for me and the other for Herr Kommandant’s file.”

Stella opened the sack and withdrew a bundle of white index cards. She glanced at the top card; dread filled her at the sight of Morty’s familiar scrawl.

“Herr Kommandant agreed to this?” she asked, trying not to panic. “With the snowstorm last night and still no telephones, he has given me many letters to type—”

“Of course he agreed!” Hermann snapped. “You possess the only working typewriter in this camp—my sergeant has informed me ours is suddenly useless. You’d think Berlin could provide us with a machine produced in this century! I would have made him telephone to find a spare, but as you say, Fräulein, the phone lines are down.” He jerked his head at the sack. “These lists must be ready by morning. To try and send him to Prague and back in this snow would take too long.”

Stella stared at the stack of cards, each marked with a single name and prisoner identification number. Her panic blossomed in earnest. She couldn’t do this. “What are the lists for, Herr Captain?” she whispered, already knowing the answer.

“Friday’s train.”

“Train?” She held her breath, still not wanting to believe the ugly truth.

“Auschwitz, Fräulein.”

His horrible statement sounded like a roar in her ears. Stella found herself back at Dachau, breathing in the pungent stench raining down from the Krematorium, her eyes and throat burning as the ash settled heavy in the air. “You want me to . . . to type deportation lists?”

He leaned over her desk. “I did not think you so squeamish, Fräulein.”

She drew back from his searching gaze before he straightened and said, “For what it’s worth, most of these Jews are too sick and lame to care where they are going. We must make room for the new ones arriving on Friday.”

Stella felt sickened. “What time in the morning do you need these lists completed?”

“Eight o’clock.” He smirked. “That gives you plenty to do this evening, Stella. See that you don’t let Herr Kommandant keep you too . . . preoccupied.”

As he left the room, she watched him go, loathing the sight of him. The colonel had said Hermann was an arrogant cur. Stella thought
pig
suited him better.

Countless names, all in Morty’s familiar scribble, spilled onto the desk as she upended the sack. There were eight stacks of cards, each tied off with string. Counting out the first stack, 250, she glanced at the other identical bundles.