For Such a Time (14 page)

As the boy darted off in one direction, Morty hurried away in another, until the shouting and commotion across the street had faded into silence.

 15 

When he saw Queen Esther . . . he was pleased with her. . . .

Esther 5:2

F
RIDAY
, M
ARCH
3, 1944

D
ingy morning light penetrated Stella’s eyelids, waking her to a grayish dawn that filtered through the gossamer lace at her window.

“You’re even more beautiful when you sleep.”

She yawned and stretched her limbs, only half aware of the familiar voice that roused such comfort in her.

Awareness jarred her upright in bed. She glanced at the colonel with a sleepy, sullen look. He leaned against the doorjamb and raised a brow. “Good morning to you, too.”

His softened expression, paired with the amused glint in his eyes, proved to be an irresistible force against her indignation. She rubbed at her face, wondering why he was there.

“Have I overslept?” Her head shot up, and she swung her legs onto the floor—before noticing that the colonel was out of uniform. A chestnut crewneck sweater emphasized his broad shoulders, while brown slacks replaced the usual black trousers, though he still wore jackboots.

“What day is it?” she asked stupidly, bemused over his civilian dress.

“Friday. And no, you haven’t overslept.” He approached the bed, grabbed up her satin robe and tossed it to her. “I want you to see something.”

He crossed to the window. She looked at the clock on the nightstand. Six a.m. She still had time to get dressed before breakfast. “Where’s Joseph?”

“Still sleeping. Now, come.”

Joseph was still in bed? She hadn’t seen him since breakfast the day before. Disturbed by the colonel’s answer, and her half-dressed state, Stella warily slid out of bed. When he didn’t turn around, she hastily donned the robe and tied the belt snugly at her waist. “Is he sick?” she asked, struggling to hide her worry.

“No, just tired. Joseph’s . . . task took longer than expected.”

He glanced at her and his expression eased. “Schnell, my dove, the day is wasting away.”

Puzzled by his mood and his presence in her room, Stella shoved her bare feet into a pair of yellow satin slippers and walked to the window.

Snow fell from the tumid sky in crisp, tiny flakes, like iced petals blanketing the Ceaseless White as far as the eye could see.

“I thought we might play today, Stella.”

She turned to him, dumbstruck. In his strange new clothes, he could have been any ordinary man. Even his rugged features held a boyish expectancy. “Play?”

He laughed, a genuine rumble that rose from deep in his chest and lightened Stella’s heart. “You don’t believe me?”

She could only shake her head.

“I’m tired of work.” His gaze returned to the window. “Last night I spent hours in my office writing requisition reports. Captain Hermann’s office caught fire yesterday afternoon, destroying crates of supplies set aside for the Red Cross inspection. The paper work had to be hand-dispatched to Prague
early this morning since the telephone lines beyond Teplice are still under repair.”

Stella wanted to crow over Hermann’s loss. “Why didn’t you wake me?” she asked instead. “I could have typed the reports for you.”

“You needed your rest.”

Stella felt both hot and cold as he reached to graze her cheek with the back of his hand. “Anyway, I’ve decided we’re taking the day off.” A mischievous smile touched his lips. “How long has it been since you played in new snow, Stella?”

“I . . . can’t remember.” His carefree mood stymied her. Only days before, they stood in his office sparring over whether or not to send her people to Auschwitz.

“Get dressed and meet me downstairs for breakfast. I’ve asked Helen to make your favorite, oatmeal. It will keep you warm while we’re outside.”

After he’d gone, she was still somewhat dazed. Stella retrieved a powder-blue angora sweater and gray ski pants from the armoire, then went to shower and dress. Afterward she stood at the mirror and noted the blond growth at her scalp just beginning to curl. Given a few more weeks, her hair might even look presentable; hopefully she could then rid herself of the red mop that lately itched whenever she wore it.

Back in her room, she searched out her shoes. Neither pair was practical for tromping outside, but she’d have to make the best of it. The idea of leaving a perfectly warm house to stand in the snow was beyond dismal. Hadn’t she spent enough time outside at Dachau?

Crouching to retrieve the pair she’d tucked beneath her bed, she noticed the Bible again on her nightstand, an inexplicable occurrence that no longer surprised her.

She perched on the edge of her bed and stared at the book. Weary exasperation replaced her irritation. Though she was tired of being coerced by the colonel—or was it Helen?—Stella
still felt wistful pangs of happier times spent with Marta, now long gone.

Nostalgia won out, again, as she reached for the tome. She held the Bible against her lap and let it fall open to a random page, just as she’d come to do so many times since her arrival. Stella wasn’t certain why she bothered with the ritual; perhaps Morty’s words on earthly hearts and divine reasoning had affected her, after all.

“Speak to me,” she breathed . . . and froze when the open page revealed a passage in the Gospel of Matthew.

The New Testament? These pages were unchartered waters for Stella; her only prior experience with the Christian section of the Bible had been explained through Marta.

Stella shifted uncomfortably. Her uncle would likely disown her if he saw her now.

“Love your enemies,”
the words of Jesus jumped out at her,
“and pray for those who persecute you . . .”

Stella snapped the book closed. The beating she’d endured at Dachau before they dragged her off to the shooting pit had nearly killed her. Was she supposed to simply forget that? Or what they had done to her people? Should she pray for them while they continued to send death trains to Auschwitz like so much stock being shipped to the slaughterhouse? And what about the colonel? Should she pray for him, as well?

But her anger died abruptly, seized by a hailstorm of emotions she wasn’t ready to face. He was unlike anyone she’d ever known: his warm sense of humor, the way he smiled at her. His kiss . . .

Stella banished the thought and returned the Bible to the nightstand drawer. Then she slipped her feet into the shoes and rose to cross the room. They were still tight on her feet, but the black pumps would hide water stains better than the blue ones—

How petty she had become! Stella scolded herself. What about the two women she’d seen earlier that week pulling a cart inside the ghetto? Each had worn threadbare clothes, without the
luxury of decent shoes. She hugged the soft rabbit hair sweater against her skin in silent gratitude. Morty was right. The colonel did treat her kindly.
But should I
pray for him?

No. Not while her people rode the death trains to Auschwitz, or while her uncle suffered beyond those fortressed walls. It dawned on her then that Hermann must be furious over the fire. Had he taken to beating Morty again?

Stella forced away the tormenting thought as she descended the stairs to the dining room. Right now she could do nothing for her uncle except keep her wits. She was no longer a helpless prisoner at Dachau, but a woman living freely within this house, enjoying the amenities of her current position. But did she have the colonel’s ear?

“Have faith, Hadassah,”
Morty’s words echoed in her mind.

If only she could.

———

The colonel rose from the table when he saw her. “You look stunning.”

Stella blushed as she took the chair he held beside his own. “Thank you, Herr Kommandant.”

“Aric,” he gently corrected her. He returned to his own seat. “That sweater matches your eyes. Blue . . . like Austria.” He continued his scrutiny. “And you look as though you’ll be warm enough.”

Nodding, Stella felt new tendrils of heat curl along her neck at his attention. She looked down at her breakfast while her mind raced. Could she really influence him? Two days ago, she’d asked him to stop sending Jews to Auschwitz. He’d refused. What if she requested something less . . . extreme? Taking a few bites of oatmeal, she mustered up her courage.

“Aric—” Her confidence rose when he smiled at her use of his name. “I’m grateful for the lovely clothes. I wish . . . the old man we saw in the barracks . . . well, that he and the rest . . . could also benefit from such generosity.”

His smiled faded. “Are we back to that? I told you I have little choice in the matter.”

“But couldn’t you order your men to give them warm clothes? What about surplus or the new clothing to be issued for the Red Cross visit?” Her voice dropped when she thought of her uncle. “That poor old man had nothing but thin rags—”

“I’m tired of hearing about that old man!” He slammed a fist against the table.

Stella jumped.

“You seem obsessed with that Jew—for what reason, I cannot fathom,” he growled. “But you’ll be pleased to know I’ve had him transferred to a different project, one that keeps him out of Captain Hermann’s way.” He shot her a hard look. “I can do nothing else.”

Relief washed over her. “Thank you.”

“Stella, I don’t wish to fight with you,” he said in a tired voice. “Finish eating, and just for a little while we’ll have no more talk about Jews or Nazis or wars. All right?”

His appealing look melted her obstinacy. She’d pushed him far enough . . . for now. “A truce then,” she agreed grudgingly.

“Ah, like a queen granting her poor minion a boon.”

Laughter returned to his voice, and Stella’s pulse gave a lighthearted kick. In that moment—wearing beautiful clothes and feasting on her favorite, hot oatmeal—she felt like a queen.

“And now, Your Highness,” he said, rising from the table, “I have a surprise for you.”

He disappeared into the living room and returned with two packages wrapped in brown paper and string. Placing them on the table, he eased her chair back and offered her the larger of the two. “Open this first.”

Too surprised to speak, she carefully untied the string. Brown paper crackled as she pulled away the wrapping.

Her breath caught in amazement.

The houndstooth coat was beautiful. Shiny black buttons
paraded down the black-and-white, full-length wool. As she lifted the coat from its wrapping, a pair of black kid gloves fell into her lap. “I . . . don’t know what to say.”

She fought to school her emotions before glancing at him. The boyish eagerness in his expression was nearly her undoing. “Open this one.” He handed her the smaller parcel.

Tearing away the paper, she gasped at the expensive pair of calf-high black leather boots fringed in fox fur. “Herr Kommandant . . . I,” she whispered.

“Aric.” He reached to lightly cup her cheek. “And you’re welcome.”

His gaze held hers, and for a moment she leaned into the gentle pressure of his hand, irresistibly drawn. Searching his face, she saw his tender smile give way to the longing she’d seen before. Her pulse pounded in her throat as he bent his head to hers, and she half hoped . . . and feared that he might kiss her again.

“Shall we go and have our first snowball fight?” he whispered.

Stella blinked in surprise while relief and disappointment simultaneously swept through her. But then he grinned, and she found a sudden hilarity in the moment. Seized by an overpoweringly selfish urge to forget her present circumstances and simply feel normal again, if only for a little while, she smiled impishly. “I’ll win.”

He chuckled. “Is that so?”

“I have a pretty good arm.”

“Let me see.”

She held out her right arm, bent at the elbow. He tested the slight swell of her biceps, his brow furrowed in mock consternation. “I see now that I might have formidable competition.”

“You’ve been warned.”

She grabbed up her new boots, but before she could slip them on, Aric crouched in front of her. Removing her shoes, he slipped the boots onto her feet, and Stella’s mind flashed with
the memory of the day she’d passed through the checkpoint into Czechoslovakia and stood freezing in front of Pig-nose. Afterward the colonel—Aric—had warmed her numbed feet with his scarf.