For Such a Time (13 page)

Two thousand Jews would go to Auschwitz. And she must type their death sentence.

A wild urge seized her; she would rush into the colonel’s office, confront him with Hermann’s cruel edict. Surely he wouldn’t allow it. But then she recalled his remarks inside the ghetto: a trainload of Jews would arrive on Friday. He must have approved the captain’s order.

Despair squeezed her chest with each breath. She imagined her uncle as she’d seen him in the barracks—his thin, stooped frame, the gauntness in his face. He’d shouldered this horrible burden of selection for years.

Stella retrieved a ream of paper and carbon sheets from her desk. Inserting them into the typewriter, she stared blindly at the keys.

Mrs. Bernstein once instructed her on a machine like this during summer’s last days, after Rosh Hashanah
.
Stella had been seventeen, and the mornings unseasonably warm in Mannheim as
she sat at Mrs. Bernstein’s kitchen table while the retired schoolteacher guided her fingers onto the keys for the very first time.

Stella could still picture the older woman. Her thin henna-dyed hair shone myriad shades of copper and brown, while a tortoiseshell monocle bounced from a silver chain against her white-laced bosom. Together they had typed the words
Hadassah Benjamin
in strokes so bold that the pudding flesh beneath Mrs. Bernstein’s exposed arms jiggled with the motion, drenching Stella’s senses with the heady fragrance of lilac water.

Their lessons had finished by Hanukkah
.
Mrs. Bernstein predicted that one day Hadassah would become secretary to a man of very important business, learning all sorts of marvelous things.

Stella punched the
1
key, and bile rose in her throat. Mrs. Bernstein could not have imagined such business as this.

Mina Keleman.
The name glared at her from the top of the first stack. Stella’s agonized fingers hovered above the keys. Did Mina have light hair or dark? Were her eyes brown or as blue as Stella’s? Was she a teacher like Mrs. Bernstein or a secretary? Hermann said most of the people were ill. Did Mina suffer? Was she being cared for?

She would end up dead at Auschwitz.

Stella glanced back and forth from the blank page in her typewriter to Mina’s name. Her heart began to beat faster. Mistakes happened, didn’t they? An oversight in the list?

She thought of the birthday quilt she’d made to surprise her uncle. Stella had seen each and every flaw she’d made in sewing the squares together, yet when she’d shown the finished gift to Marta, her best friend had declared it perfect.

Could dropping a person’s name from the list be as easy as hiding a bad stitch? What about several people? If she dropped, say, eight numbers from each page of 1 through 100? That would remove 160 names out of 2,000—less than two hundred Jews. She didn’t dare risk more.

As it was, her plan would only work if the lists weren’t care
fully scrutinized. She fervently hoped the guards in charge of loading the train were as illiterate as those at Dachau. Appell often took hours simply because a guard couldn’t count beyond twenty-five or read the prisoners’ names from the ledger. The weather might even work in her favor. Any man standing out in the cold while the train was being loaded would want to rush through the process.

Stella refused to think of the Consequence as she poised her fingers over the keys. How could she have thought herself courageous in the ghetto just days before, boldly proclaiming a Yiddish song to the colonel? It seemed so insignificant now, compared with this.

Mina Keleman’s card still lay on top. Stella bit her lip. The first card of each stack might hold some significance. While she couldn’t be sure, it was more of a gamble than she could afford to take. Captain Hermann—or anyone else with half a mind—might notice its removal.

Forgive me
. She typed Mina’s name, each touch of the key like a knife in the other woman’s back. Marta might liken this to the story of Jesus, how He’d given up His life to save the whole world.

Did that justify Stella’s actions now? Was it right Mina should die so that others might live?

Stella continued to type, occasionally skipping a number until she’d deleted eight people from the first sheet. She began the second, then a third, each page offering hope to a few more lives. She felt a strange sense of empowerment as she neared the end of her task, a glimmer of the hope she thought she’d lost.

She
could
make a difference, even a small one.

At five o’clock, with her task complete, Stella retied the stacks as they’d been given to her, minus the 160 cards she’d eliminated from the lists. Those she would toss into the fireplace.

“Fräulein!”

She paused in restuffing the burlap bag to answer the colonel’s
summons. Inside his office, he sat behind his massive desk, his pen poised over a stack of letters Stella had typed earlier. “These must be posted tonight. Have Grossman see to it.”

He handed her the correspondence. Most were requisitions for food—no doubt he wished to wine and dine the Red Cross while he made fools of them.

“Certainly, Herr Kommandant.” Then, “I’ve just finished typing the lists for Auschwitz.” Somehow she hoped he would deny any part in the obscene assignment.

Instead he removed his glasses and leaned back in his chair. “And?”

Devastation threatened to crush her. Still, she plodded forward. “I wanted to make sure you’d given Captain Hermann your approval for this task.”

“And I suppose you have an opinion on that, as well?”

She met his challenging look. “Would my opinion change yours?”

His mouth flattened. “I can see that it bothers you. I only perform my duty. Disobedience is a luxury none of us can afford.”

“But you are Kommandant. Surely you make the orders, and your officers must carry them out?”

“True, until one of them decides those orders are detrimental to the Reich. Then I’m conveniently labeled a traitor and any one of them, even the lowliest
Soldat
, would be justified in putting a bullet in my head. I’ve learned to trust no one in this war. Not you. Not even myself.”

She wasn’t moved by his embittered tone. “You won’t save them, will you?”

“How can I?” He rose from the chair and tunneled his hands through his hair. “Shall I order Captain Hermann to send an empty train to Auschwitz? And afterward when I lie facedown in a pool of my own blood and Jews are still being loaded into trains, will you stop him?”

Frustration lodged like a knot in Stella’s throat. The situa
tion seemed futile. “I’ll send these letters out right away,” she whispered, clutching the papers.

He read her mood. Heaving a sigh, he came around the desk to meet her halfway. She tried to ignore him—and the battle of emotions warring within her.

“I feel no hatred toward your Jews, Stella. In fact, I feel nothing at all since they have little value to me. If it were my choice, I’d let them go free. They’re nothing but a nuisance with which our Führer has hobbled the war effort. Good fighting men and countless resources are wasted dealing with the entire Jew issue. And it would be reasonable to say I treat them better than most in my position.

“But you must understand something else.” He flashed a look meant to frighten her. “I am a soldier no longer fit for soldiering. Relegated to a pathetic flock of prisoners with what amounts to street thugs for guards. Until this war is over, I must perform my duty despite the lack of means at my disposal . . . or how distasteful it might seem. It’s that or risk my own death.”

Stella pretended to smooth a wrinkle from her skirt so he wouldn’t see her anger. Beyond her impression that there was more at stake than he’d told her, she thought him callous, egotistical, and brutally frank.

He certainly didn’t lie about his feelings. The man had so far spoken only truth to her, unlike the others of his kind that she’d encountered over the past few months. Unlike her own lies.

“Please understand, Stella.” He reached to grip her arms, his voice slightly hoarse.

“I’ll try.” She wasn’t sure whether she spoke the truth or simply yearned to unravel his shroud of misery. At least she finally understood that same sense of melancholy.
Only two hundred Jews saved . . .

Whatever reasons had brought him to be in this place, in this time, he had no more choice in the matter of conscience than she did. And, it seemed, less hope of any deliverance.

 14 

During the time Mordecai was sitting at the king’s gate, Bigthana and Teresh, two of the king’s officers . . . became angry and conspired to assassinate King Xerxes.

Esther 2:21

T
HURSDAY
, M
ARCH
2, 1944

P
ermission to speak freely, Herr Captain.”

“Granted.” Captain Hermann stood at the open window of his second-story office. He stared down into the alley, watching snowflakes drift onto the half meter that already covered the frozen bank of earth.

“I’m going to kill that Jew-loving piece of
Kitch
.”

“Trash, Lieutenant Brucker?” Hermann asked without turning.

“Er . . . pardon, Herr Captain, I meant no disrespect.”

“What Jew lover has you so heated up, Frederick?”

“Our Kommandant, Herr Captain.”

“He has become a problem, hasn’t he?” Hermann took a drag on his cigarette, inhaling the fragrant smoke into his lungs. Exhaling, his mouth formed hazy smoke rings that floated out into the cold to collide with the falling white flakes.

“The task would be easy enough, Herr Captain.”

Hermann closed the window and turned to eye Sergeant Koch. He and Brucker sat along opposite ends of his desk, a deck of playing cards between them.

“You should have seen him, Herr Captain.” Brucker’s normally flaccid jaw clenched. “He humiliated me, forcing me to eat that Jew slop.”

His fist slammed against the desk, scattering the cards. “He comes limping into Theresienstadt waving that cane around like some high and mighty Wehrmacht hero, telling us how to run this camp as if we were idiots!”

“You
are
idiots.” Hermann dropped his cigarette onto the scarred wood floor, then made a careless attempt to grind it out with the toe of his boot. He thought of the rich Aubusson rugs in the brick house and how lush they had once felt beneath his own bare feet.

“We could take care of his pet, the Jewess, at the same time.”

Hermann glanced at Koch. “What makes you think the woman’s a Jew?” He refused to admit that he’d held the same belief—until the night she’d grabbed his lapels and pressed a warm kiss to his lips.
Would a Jew do
such a thing?

Koch’s eyes narrowed. “You and I both saw her that first night, Herr Captain. Without the wig, she looks Jew. And the night of the Kommandant’s party she played the tease—”

“If she looks Jew, then so do you,” Hermann growled, the undeniable pleasure of her kiss still warring with his subsequent humiliation. “She’s got your blond hair and blue eyes, Sergeant.” He smiled coldly. “Maybe she’s your long-lost sister, eh?”

Koch launched at him, fists swinging. Hermann, taller and broader than his young sergeant, delivered a blow that sent him sprawling. “Stand down! And cease this foolish talk, both of you. Otherwise you’ll end up dead with the Kommandant’s bullet in your head. That, or face a court-martial.” He turned to Brucker. “Don’t let his injuries fool you. The man’s a decorated soldier. He didn’t receive the Knight’s Cross for being stupid
or
cowardly.”

“I’ve thought of this,” Brucker said as Koch struggled to his feet. “My plan will still work. Are you in?”

Hermann hesitated. He’d lost so much: his command of the camp, the luxurious brick house, and now a woman with fiery blue eyes and sensuous lips. “I dislike the Wehrmacht as much as you,” he said finally, “but I can’t afford to risk my rank.” He shot a pointed look at each of them. “After all, who would take over running this camp if something
was
to happen to the Kommandant?”

He fished another cigarette from his breast pocket and then grabbed a handful of papers from the desk. “I must see to the manifest for tomorrow’s train.”

Near the door he called over his shoulder, “I wish you good hunting.”

———

Morty huddled at the far end of the room behind a stack of food crates earmarked for the arrival of the Red Cross. Pockets crammed with rations, he clutched a can of sardines in one hand while his other fisted the black metal object he’d forged only that morning.

He stole another glance at the wall behind Hermann’s desk. Relief mingled with his indignation at the sight of his Grand Cross, now framed in glass below the Madman himself.

His legs began to cramp, yet he dared not move as Koch resumed the conversation.

“All right, Lieutenant, Herr Captain has more or less given us his blessing. What did you have in mind?”

“Tomorrow night you and I will replace the two perimeter guards at the Kommandant’s house,” Brucker said tersely. “When we’re certain he sleeps, we’ll make our move.”

“Replace the guards? How do you propose we do that? Martin will do it for a few
Reichsmarks
, but Grossman is the Kommandant’s man. He’ll never leave his post.”

Morty peered over the crate in time to see Brucker’s malicious grin. “Did I say we were going to ask him?” The lieutenant
plucked a card off the scattered pile on the desk and seemed to study it. “I’ll make arrangements with Martin—”

“Leave Grossman to me.”

Brucker eyed Koch as he tossed down the card. “Make certain he keeps silent on the matter . . . permanently.”

Koch nodded. “And the Jewess?”

“She and the Kommandant will have a terrible lovers’ quarrel.” Brucker chuckled. “We’ll make it look like she stabbed him with a kitchen knife. Later, we can report that we heard his cry and entered the house to find her standing over him with the bloodied blade in her hands. When she tried to turn on us”—he threw up his hands in mock fear—“what else could we do but open fire?”

“Like Romeo and Juliet,” Koch said with a snort. “It will work. When do you want to meet at the house?”

Brucker rose from the desk. Morty ducked his head. “As soon as you take care of Grossman, come and find me at the barracks. We’ll go over together.”

Chills raced along Morty’s spine as he heard the two soldiers leave the room. He tried to stand, but he’d been crouched behind the crates for the past twenty minutes and could barely move his legs. Hurriedly he rubbed enough circulation back into them to struggle to his feet. He had to warn Hadassah!

Hobbling across the room, he snatched the box frame from the wall behind the desk and removed his Grand Cross. After inserting the mock cross he’d crafted, he replaced the frame beneath the picture of Hitler.

Tucking his prized medal down the front of his pants, he slipped out the same exit as Koch and Brucker. Earlier, he’d snuck upstairs during the afternoon meal when the place was deserted; now the soldiers would be back at their posts.

Hugging the wall, he made his way toward the landing. He peered around the next corner—and spied a pair of Soldats at the foot of the steps.

Morty breathed a curse. How could he get a message to
Hadassah before Brucker and Koch followed through with their scheme? Though God
had
blessed him with the lucky draw to collect wood tomorrow, she might not get his message in time.

He retreated from the soldiers and moved back to the captain’s office. Staring out the closed window to the alley below, Morty noted a lone sentry pacing back and forth.

Cold greeted him as he quietly opened the window. The distance to the ground seemed endless. He estimated how many of his bones would break in the fall. Even so, it was better odds than facing the guards downstairs.

A movement behind the sentry caught his attention. Joseph, his slight form darting in and out among the snowflakes, hid in a narrow space between buildings until the sentry turned away. Then he sprinted into the next pocket of darkness. His destination seemed to be Morty’s quarters.

Perhaps he carried a message from Hadassah?

Morty stifled an urge to call out. How could he signal to Joseph without alerting the sentry? He turned to scan the room and noticed a wisp of smoke rising from the floor.

The captain’s cigarette! He nearly shouted as he picked up the smoldering butt and blew on the ember until it glowed. His eyes darted to the desk and the papers that lay scattered along its top.

Kindling
. He lit the papers. The thin trail of smoke quickly ignited into a stream of fire that rippled across the desktop. He fanned the blaze; a minute later, the dry wood surface of the desk began to burn.

Morty reached for the floor-length drapes at the window and touched them to the fire. Bright orange flames shot up the lace like vicious fingers clawing for the ceiling. A loud
whoosh
sounded as black smoke barreled outside into the frigid air.

He stood just beyond the range of burning drapes and billowing haze.
“Feuer! Feuer!”
he yelled, and risked a closer look when he heard an answering shout. The sentry abandoned his post and ran toward the front of the building.

Wasting no time, Morty climbed out onto the window’s ledge. Hot cinders of burning fabric singed his hands and face.

He stared at the ground, hesitating. It was a long way down.

Frenzied shouts accompanied the thunder of boots on the stairs behind him. Morty glanced across the alley and said a quick prayer that Joseph still hid among the shadows.

He pushed himself from the ledge. As the ground rushed to meet him, he closed his eyes and curled into a tight ball, hoping to lessen the impact of his fall. Panic rose in his throat. Surely God wouldn’t let him die . . .

The snowdrift saved him. Every joint in his body ached as he fell into a graceless heap against the soft stuff, but he was alive.
God be praised!

“Morty . . . ?”

He raised himself on all fours, shaking his head to clear it. When he finally looked up, Joseph crouched over him, eyes huge. “What happened?”

“Help me up. Quickly!”

Joseph assisted him to his feet, and Morty groaned as he offered another silent prayer of thanks that his limbs were still in one piece. He pulled the boy across the street, and together they crept along the wall of the old barracks building until they reached a space that hid them from the ensuing chaos.

“Why are you here?” Morty asked when they were able to stop and rest. “Have you word from her?”

Joseph answered by shoving a note at him. “I must go,” he said, then turned to leave.

Morty stayed him with a hand. “Answer me, boy. Why aren’t you at Herr Kommandant’s house?”

Joseph averted his gaze as he fidgeted with the brim of his bargeman’s cap. “All children must help clean up for the Red Cross visit. We’re taking . . . boxes down to the river.”

“From the Krematorium,” Morty finished grimly. Though Theresienstadt wasn’t a death camp, it housed four large ovens
that disposed of the hundreds of bodies dead from hunger and disease in the ghetto each day.

Such a task to be laid upon a child! Yet no worse than his own. As sole Elder in the Judenrat, he’d been charged with the deportation in preparation for the Red Cross.

He shoved it from his mind. “I started a letter today. I must finish it now and get it to her. Can you return later?”

Joseph shook his head. “Sergeant Grossman drove me here. He’s waiting in the car at the main gate. Right now he thinks I’m still down at the river. Herr Kommandant told him to bring me back to the house as soon as all the boxes are gone.”

“You must find a way to come back, boy.” Morty paused, looked him in the eye. “Her life depends on it.” Then he quickly sketched the details of the soldiers’ plot. “You are the only one who can help them.”

Brow furrowed, Joseph chewed at the edge of his lower lip for a long moment. Finally he said, “Bring your letter to the Krematorium and put it inside one of the cardboard boxes. Then wait for me and tap the box with your fingers when I return so I’ll know which one. Before I sink the box into the river, I’ll take out your message.”

Morty nodded. “Do you know where to hide it—in case you get searched before you’re taken back to the house?”

Joseph shrugged. “Grossman likes me. He won’t search.”

“Then take this to her, as well.” Morty withdrew the Grand Cross from the waistband of his pants. “Have her keep it safe.”

A distant cry caught their attention. More soldiers were running inside the burning building across the street. Black smoke continued to billow from the open window upstairs. “You’d better go,” Morty hissed.