For Such a Time (23 page)

He slid his good arm beneath his head and smiled a dreamy smile. “Please read to me some more, Fräulein.”

She picked up the book and read from the last few lines of Tennyson’s “Ulysses.”

“We are not now that strength which in old days

Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;

One equal temper of heroic hearts,

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.”

Stella glanced up. Rand was asleep. She closed the book and ventured back upstairs before going to the library. Removing Morty’s Grand Cross from around her neck, she stuffed it inside the hidden compartment of the music box. Her vigil was over. Morty was safe.

Taking the photograph from inside her shirt, Stella gazed
at the child with his mother. The tenderness he’d stirred in her earlier returned, filling her heart with hope . . . and uncertainty for the future.

She considered the lines from the poem she’d read to Grossman. The lamentations of an old warrior seemed appropriate for Aric’s life. He’d sacrificed the best part for his country and now, far from the excitement of battle, he was sending innocent Jews to be slaughtered at Auschwitz—an untenable task for one whose nature inclined toward fairness and decency.

Would Aric uphold those same qualities when all secrets between them were revealed?

Stella glanced toward the nightstand. The Bible, as usual, had mysteriously reappeared. She retrieved it, feeling no animosity this time, only a jarring sense of wonder. Had God truly listened?

She sat on the edge of the bed and let the book fall open against her lap.

The book of First Kings, part of the
Nevi’im
in her own Jewish Tanakh. Her eyes went to chapter nineteen on the page, and she felt the first flutter of recognition. It was the story of the prophet Elijah, whom God told to wait in a cave at Mount Horeb for His passing. A great wind arose, and Elijah came out of his cave, but God was not in the wind. An earthquake followed that shook the ground, but God was not in the earthquake. A fire ensued, but God was not in the fire.

After the fire, a whisper. And God spoke to Elijah.

Stella gently closed the book. Why had she assumed God would speak to her in some great audible sign, like a thunderclap, lightning, or a burst of fire from the sky? Had anger and bitterness made her deaf to His whisper?

“Tell me, Lord,” she pleaded softly. “I promise to listen.”

 25 

In every province to which the edict and the order of the king came, there was great mourning among the Jews. . . .

Esther 4:3

A
ric might have imagined the human display out of an American motion picture. Men and women dressed in their Hollywood best: expensive suits sporting tweed caps or crisp felt trilbys, and colorful jewel silk dresses trimmed in matching pillbox hats and wrist-length gloves.

He trudged through the snow beside Hermann and General Feldman as they approached the lineup at the center of the ghetto’s
Marktplatz
. In addition to the borrowed surplus garments, each Jew had donned a frozen smile for the occasion. Only the infrequent darting glance or shifting of feet revealed their anxiety.

Most of the women wore cosmetics. Like circus clowns, they had charcoaled brows and heavily rouged cheeks, imbuing their gaunt flesh with a kind of grotesque hilarity. Aric felt acutely relieved at Stella’s absence. He couldn’t bear her look of condemnation for what he must do. And the boy . . .

His chest tightened as a frigid gust blew across his face, lifting the hem of his heavy greatcoat. The endless line of bodies
huddled closer together, their lightweight garments barely protecting them against the cold.

“Captain, are there no coats in surplus?” he demanded. “I doubt we’ll convince the Red Cross of the prisoners’ comfort over their loud chattering of teeth.”

“Excellent suggestion, Colonel.” The general penned another notation into his diary.

Feldman had turned out to be the biggest surprise of all. Once they’d reached the ghetto, the general stepped from Aric’s Mercedes, retrieved a small journal from his breast pocket, and began making copious notes. Obnoxious joviality had been replaced by hawk-eyed determination—a man ambitious to impress his Führer, Aric decided.

The transformed ghetto now looked more like a winter ski resort than a transit camp for Auschwitz. Feldman still managed to find flaws. “That sign above the bank needs to be straightened, Colonel,” he said. “And I want a snowman built over there”—he whipped a leather crop from beneath his arm and pointed to the park beyond the square—“complete with eyes, nose, and stocking cap. We want to impress our visitors with the wholesome activities of the children.”

“My captain will see to it, Herr General,” Aric said.

Feldman scribbled another note and then glanced up, scrutinizing the perimeter of the square. “Where are the propaganda posters we sent from Berlin? Why are they not hanging in plain view?”

Aric turned to his captain. Hermann flushed. “I will take care of it immediately, Herr Kommandant.”

“Have all remains been removed from the Krematorium?” the general demanded.

“Last Thursday, Herr General,” Aric said. “The children worked late into the night dumping them into the lake.”

“Herr Kommandant even sent his houseboy to participate in the removal,” Captain Hermann spoke up.

“The little Jew from this morning, Captain?” The general nodded. “Hard work is good for him. He’ll be out here today, yes?” He glanced at Aric.

Aric jerked his head in assent as he silently cursed Hermann for drawing Feldman’s attention to the boy. He’d planned to keep Joseph out of view until the general departed. Did the captain now use the boy to get even with him? “You waste Herr General’s time with tedious details, Captain,” he bit out.

Hermann eyed him coldly. “Forgive me, Herr Kommandant. I merely wished to bring to attention your dedication and inconvenience. For the good of the Reich.”

“Your captain does you credit, Colonel,” the general interjected. He turned his attention to the line of prisoners. “Who was in charge of screening?”

Aric looked away from Hermann to answer, “Instructions came from Obersturmbannführer Eichmann, Herr General. We were ordered to present only the healthy ones to the Swiss during their visit.”

“Hmmph. Let’s see how healthy they are.” Feldman replaced the diary in his pocket and gripped his leather crop as he strolled past the long line of well-dressed candidates. Aric walked beside him. Hermann and two SS guards followed at a respectable pace.

The general paused in front of a thin woman clad in a royal blue jacket, skirt, and matching pillbox hat. Black netting hid most of her face except the vermilion lips that smiled at him tremulously.

Placing his crop beneath her chin, the general smiled back. “What is your name, pretty Sarah?” he asked, using the Nazi slang for Jewess.

Her smile faltered. “Sophie . . . Sophie Lettenberg, Excellency,” she said, revealing a mouthful of rotted teeth.

“Sophie. A lovely name. My cousin’s name.” The general slid his crop around her nape and gently prodded her out of line toward the two guards.

“No, please!” she cried. “I won’t open my mouth, I swear it!”

But the general had already moved on to the next person.

Aric followed, fighting to breathe against an invisible noose. He eyed Feldman’s gray Wehrmacht uniform and wondered when an honorable soldier’s days had been reduced to eliminating Jews from a dress lineup much the way one discarded old clothes from a closet.

He tilted his head toward the gray wash of sky. Perhaps the same time his own had been debased to the point of eliminating an entire camp.

The general stopped in front of a short, gaunt man with ruddy complexion.

“Give me your handkerchief, Colonel,” he said pleasantly. Aric complied, and the general took it and wiped at one of the man’s hollowed cheeks.

He stared at the crimson stain left on the white cloth. “Do you enjoy using women’s rouge?” he asked.

The Jew shifted, staring at the ground. “It is not rouge, Excellency. It is . . . my own blood.”

“How resourceful.” The general wrinkled his nose and tossed the stained handkerchief onto the snow. Then he pulled the Jew from the line. “You may show them that trick at Auschwitz.”

Two hours passed in bitter cold while the general winnowed out those adults bound for the next train east. The rest would remain to take part in the Embellishment.

“Now, let me see the small ones.”

At the general’s order, hundreds of children were marched single file from the renovated “recreation center” to stand in front of the remaining Jews. Aric scanned the assembly and found Joseph, dressed in a brown wool suit and felt cap, standing toward the end of the line.

He shot another hostile glance at Hermann. The captain merely cocked a brow, his eyes gleaming. Aric ground his teeth and turned back to the general, who now examined the teeth, hair, and appendages of each boy and girl.

He finally reached Joseph. Aric held his breath. Perhaps Feldman had already forgotten what the boy looked like.
Leave your cap
on, Joseph.

“Smile for me, child.”

The general spoke in a jovial voice. Joseph grinned up at him. “Ah, what nice teeth. You are the
Hausjunge
?”

Aric’s hope evaporated. Joseph glanced over at him, then bobbed his head eagerly.

“Do you like working for Herr Kommandant?”

Another enthusiastic nod. “Ja, very much, Herr General.”

“But he hasn’t taught you manners?”

Joseph’s expectant smile faded. He flashed an uncertain look at Aric and then back at the general. “Herr General?”

“Has he not taught you to remove your hat in the presence of an Oberstgruppenführer?”

Joseph snatched away the felt cap and bowed his head. “Please forgive my bad manners, Herr General,” he whispered.

But the leather crop was already pressing his head to one side. “What is this?” the general asked. “Where is your ear?”

Aric’s senses reeled. This wasn’t happening . . .

“I . . . I lost it over a month ago, Herr General,” the boy whimpered, keeping his eyes downcast.

“And no one has found it yet?” A loud guffaw shook the general’s protruding belly. “Too bad, little Hausjunge.” He nudged Joseph from the line toward the two guards.

Aric fisted the brass top of his cane. He wanted to hit something—Hermann, Feldman, both of them—even as the rational part of his brain warned caution. “Do you intend to take my houseboy away from me, Herr General?” he tried to cajole.

“Ja, and I commend you, Colonel. Your personal sacrifice in order to ensure the goals of the Reich will set a good example for soldiers and Jews alike.”

“But, Herr General, surely you know how long it takes to train one of these Jews.”

Feldman reached into the line and pulled out another boy, a shorter one with reddish-brown hair and gray eyes. “Teach this one. I am certain he’ll be a quick learner.” His challenging gaze seemed to bar any further argument. “Now, let me see the infirmary.”

Leaning against his cane, Aric worked to draw breath. Feldman walked with Hermann toward the ghetto hospital, having dismissed the issue of Joseph’s life like so much negligible paper work. He stared into the faces of those remaining Jews and saw relieved smiles pass between them. Relieved . . . and unaware.

Dread consumed him like a fever. Himmler had coined the “cleanup project”
Wolkenbrand
, or Firecloud, and Eichmann was going to ensure that Aric carried it out. At least those leaving for Auschwitz might have a chance at survival—

Liar
. He glanced over at the Jews bound for Wednesday’s train. Joseph stood among them. Aric’s head began to pound as he spun away to follow the general. Eichmann would bury the evidence at Auschwitz, too. Just like Heydrich had done at Babi Yar . . .

His cane went flying through the air to land in a distant drift of snow.

 26 

When this day is done, I will go to the king, even though it is against the law.

Esther 4:16

S
tella finished typing her last letter as General Feldman marched into the library. Aric followed. “There are still too many unsuitable prisoners,” the general growled. “I want them all out of here on Wednesday’s train.”

“Of course, Herr General.” Aric looked harassed and barely tossed Stella a glance as the two men disappeared into his office.

Stella’s insides twisted. Another train? Had something happened in the ghetto?

“Fräulein Muller!”

At the general’s booming request, Stella grabbed her steno pad and pencil and hurried into Aric’s office. Herr Sausage sat behind the massive mahogany desk. Aric stood at the barred window. He didn’t look at her. Stella’s gnawing sense of alarm increased. “Yes, Herr General?”

The general thrust a pocket-sized diary in her direction. “I want you to type this list of entries, my dear. They must be sent to our Führer in Berlin. Please sit and I will dictate a cover letter.”

Stella took the chair in front of the desk. Before the general
started, he called to Aric, “Where is your captain, Colonel? I want to speak to this man of the Judenrat now and rid myself of him before supper.”

Morty was coming here? Again Stella looked toward Aric. What did they want with her uncle?

“Herr Kommandant, I have brought the Jew.”

She twisted around to see Morty being dragged into the room by Hermann. His face still carried yellow bruises from Friday’s beating, and his feet . . .

Stella bit the inside of her cheek to keep from crying out. His red, swollen ankles bulged from the tops of his shoes.

The general seemed equally distressed. “How do you expect the Red Cross to believe our ploy, Colonel von Schmidt? This one looks like he was hit by a train.” He glared at Aric. “Did you suppose that a few cosmetics might make him look as convincing as the others?” He slapped his crop against the desk. “Bring me another!”

“Herr General, there is no one else.” Aric moved toward the desk. “The other members of the Judenrat died in a recent outbreak of typhus. I haven’t yet had time to interview replacements.”

“You’d better find someone,” the general ground out. “I want this . . . this mess”—he pointed at Morty—“on Wednesday’s train.”

No! Stella stifled a cry as her steno pad fell against her lap. She couldn’t let her uncle go to Auschwitz! She edged forward in her seat. “Your pardon, Herr General, but I may be able to offer assistance—”

“That won’t be necessary, Fräulein,” Aric cut her off sharply.

“Let her speak, Colonel.” The general eyed Stella with congenial amusement. “What do you propose, pretty one?”

“You spoke of cosmetics, Herr General. I . . . I am very good with them. I believe I can hide this man’s bruises.”

His gaze raked over her. “Yes, my dear, I imagine you are
good at many things.” His expression then soured as he cast a negligent wave of his leather crop in Morty’s direction. “But I doubt a little face powder and rouge will keep him on his feet.”

“I believe, Herr General,” Stella pleaded, “you have just given him the incentive to try his best.”

A chortle escaped the portly man. “Perhaps the lovely Fräulein should pose as our Judenrat representative, eh, Colonel? She is clever as well as pretty.” Then his eyes narrowed on her. “Why do you wish to go to all this trouble, Fräulein? It is after all just a Jew.”

Aric drew up beside her. “I fear my secretary, like most women, suffers from a soft heart, Herr General.”

“You are tenderhearted, then?” the general said with a grin. “You speak of incentives, Fräulein. What is mine? Giving in to this compassionate whim of yours?” His gloved finger trailed slowly back and forth along the leather crop.

“Why . . .” Stella braved her best smile. “You would have my utmost admiration, Herr General.”

The general leaned forward and chuckled. “And who could resist such a prize?”

Stella could sense Aric’s anger beside her, but she didn’t care. Nothing mattered except saving her uncle.

“Very well.” The general rose from his chair and turned to Morty, all joviality gone. “You had better be waltzing by Wednesday morning, Jude,” he said, “or you will be on that train.”

Aric barely tasted his food at supper. Occasionally he shot blistering glances at Stella, who knew she’d either upset him or realized her folly because she seemed to share his lack of appetite.

The general sat at the opposite end of the table, plowing industriously through a bowl of
Leberknödel
meatballs.

Licentious pig
. Aric envisioned Stella screaming in the middle of the night because the general had broken into her room and
tried to ravish her. Even now, the fat man’s beady gaze bore into her. Aric stabbed at his fried potatoes with his fork. He wasn’t going to let anyone—general, field marshal, even the Führer himself—lay so much as a hand on her.

There was the other issue to deal with, as well. Sooner or later, Stella would question him about the boy. Aric wished to avoid the conversation until tomorrow. By then he hoped to convince the general to change his mind. “Perhaps, Herr General, you would care to take a drive into town after supper?” he said.

The gluttonous man glanced up and mumbled through a mouthful of food, “The ghetto?”

Aric forced a smile and shook his head. “I’ll take you to Litomerice. Major Lindberg runs the camp in that city and tells me they have a fine
Schenke
where we can have a drink.” He winked at the general. “And perhaps a little entertainment.”

The general paused, a meatball halfway to his lips. A slow smile transformed his features.

Take the bait, you
degenerate.
“After all you’ve accomplished today, Herr General, surely an evening off will not hurt?”

Setting down his fork, the general wiped his mouth with the napkin tucked in his collar. He cast an appraising look at Stella, who seemed to have enough sense to ignore him and keep her attention on her plate—before he shot a wink back at Aric. “I believe I’d enjoy a drink, Schmidt.” Too eagerly the general vaulted from his chair, the buttons at his midriff catching a corner of the tablecloth and clanging the silver. “I’ll be ready after I make a call to Berlin. Why don’t you ask your captain to join us? He can drive.”

“Of course, Herr General.” Aric also rose. “I’ll go and make the arrangements. Please use the telephone in my office.”

When the general disappeared, Aric moved to stand beside Stella’s chair. “Sweet little idiot, what were you thinking this afternoon? Do you realize the game you play with that lecherous ox?”

She looked up at him with frightened eyes. He had to struggle to hold on to his anger.

“I can distract him tonight, but that won’t stop him from trying to get to you tomorrow—”

She stole the rest of his words with a finger to his lips. “I’m sorry. I only wanted to save the old man from the train.”

He grasped her hand. “By saving that old Jew one more day, you made a deal with the devil.” He leaned in so that his nose touched hers. “And the pound of flesh he has in mind will be very much alive and waiting for him in his bed.” Satisfied to see her look of shock, he straightened. “Finally you understand.”

“I . . . I realize what I did this afternoon was foolish—”

“And dangerous.”

She nodded. “What can I do now?”

Hearing her anxiety, Aric squeezed her fingers. “He’ll have to get past me. You might still consider sleeping in my room.”

“And where will you sleep? I told you, I won’t be your mistress.”

He’d half expected her response. Still, her guarded look had the ability to sting. He smiled past his injured pride. “Marry me, then.”

Stunned silence fell between them. Aric, shocked by his own words, saw the solution to his dilemma. He could get her safely out of Theresienstadt before Friday, and perhaps the boy, too.

“Be my wife,” he urged, turning her chair so that she faced him.

Her face whitened. “M-marry you?”

“Yes.” For an instant, he considered—and discarded—the notion of merely sending her away with the Red Cross. She would still be alone and unprotected. If they married, she could have a new life in Switzerland, with access to his money and under his legal protection. “It’s the only way.”

Before she might object, he pulled her out of the chair and kissed her with a desperate passion meant to overwhelm her. Time was short; he had to make certain she never found out
about Wolkenbrand or his part in it. She began to relax in his arms, meeting his passion with her own. Aric nearly crowed in triumph.

“We can marry within two days, in Litomerice,” he murmured between kisses. “Thursday I’ll arrange for you to leave with the Red Cross. I have enough funds so that you can accompany them to Switzerland and wait for me. At least until this business is finished.”

———

Stella’s senses reeled as much from his marriage proposal as his intoxicating kiss. She struggled to marshal her thoughts—and her emotions. “I cannot marry you,” she said finally.

“Yes, you can.” He dipped his head to kiss her neck.

She closed her eyes and shivered at the contact. “We hardly know each other,” she said weakly. “We need more time.”

That gained his attention. He pierced her with a look. “We’re at war, Süsse. Time is a consideration we do not have. As for our length of acquaintance . . .” His sober expression softened. “I know what I’ve wanted for a long time now.”

Want. Not love
. Stella knew it wasn’t enough, and some deeper part of her grieved for him, grieved for them both. Yet when he kissed her again, she surrendered. For a wild moment she imagined being swept away from the war and its lingering ghosts of death and disease.

Yet Stella knew she couldn’t abandon Morty and Joseph. And whether he knew it or not, Aric needed her, too. “What I want isn’t the point.” She drew back from him. “There are so many issues at stake.”

“What issues?”

His sharp gaze made her falter. “I can’t leave without Joseph—”

“Or the old man, or every other Jew in that ghetto!” He gripped her arms and held her. “Do you love them so much that you would turn down my offer?”

“Nein!” Alarmed at the turn of their conversation, Stella
tried a different tack. “I just imagined my wedding day would be a beautiful ceremony with flowers, a cake . . . a honeymoon. Not some hurried affair among strangers, within sight of a concentration camp, in the middle of a war.”

“I do apologize for the lack of amenities.” His regret seemed real enough as he relaxed his grip on her. “But you have until Wednesday to get used to the idea of being my wife. Then we’ll go to Litomerice to be married. On Thursday you must leave with the Swiss.”

Her panic rose. “Why can’t I stay? I don’t understand—”

“The war is winding down. I don’t want you here when . . .” He paused, his features tense. “It won’t be safe. This is the last opportunity I’ll have to get you out.”

She couldn’t imagine leaving her uncle and the boy behind. “You could protect me,” she persisted. “I trust you—”

“No!” His loud bark made her jump. Then more gently he said, “Please, my dove, do this for me. I won’t rest until I know you’re safe.”