For Such a Time (30 page)

“It is still
your
faith too, daughter,” he reminded her. “But in truth, I struggle with mine each and every day. A strong belief in God is like forging steel; it must be repeatedly tested in fire, then cooled in the waters of His mercy before becoming resilient enough to withstand evil.”

“Not all,” Hadassah countered bitterly. “In these past months I’ve seen such ‘evil’ as to defy even the stoutest faith.”

“Nor will it go away, Hadassah. God gave His people free will, and so Satan will always try and tempt us. Yet we can be redeemed through our own weakness if we but have ‘eyes to see.’ Look at King David. He fell into sin by coveting Bathsheba for his own, and then arranged the death of her husband, Uriah. When God punished his evil deed by taking their first child, David repented and became even closer to God.”

“I don’t see the Nazis being punished,” she shot back. “Nor do they feel a need to repent. In fact, they seem to enjoy our destruction.”

Morty sighed. “Our truest test, daughter, is to wait . . . and persevere. What did God tell Daniel? ‘Many will be purified, made spotless and refined, but the wicked will continue to be wicked. None of the wicked will understand, but those who are wise . . .’”

“Does that make me one of the wicked or the wise?” she asked. “Is my soul being ‘refined’—by typing lists that send innocent people to their death? Or am I damned for all eternity? And if I refuse . . .” She recalled Aric’s words to her. “The monsters will simply shoot me and find another to take my place. Is that God’s will?”

Morty flinched. Hadassah knew he wrestled with the same dilemma, saddled with the burden of choosing those who would go. She suddenly felt tired. She didn’t want to talk about faith or redemption. What would it change? She must still go through with this hideous task. “Please, tatteh, let’s not argue. You’ll bring Joseph to me?”

His sorrowful gaze held hers a moment before he nodded. After he left, Hadassah wandered toward the makeshift desk. Her limbs felt brittle as matchsticks as she eased herself into the only chair.

The typewriter still wore its protective gray cloth cover. Sonntag had placed fresh paper and carbon alongside it, as if she were preparing mundane supply requisitions in triplicate instead of sending hundreds to die.

Despair settled over her. How could she remember the names of each person she’d tried to save? And for the ones she couldn’t . . . to force a child to take their place? Where was God amidst so much evil?
“Many shall be refined
, purified, tested . . .”

Unexpectedly, Abraham’s story came to mind. He’d been given the ultimate test by God. Had he felt this heartsick, tak
ing his son Isaac to the top of Mount Moriah? Knowing all the while what he must do?

But God had spoken out to him, releasing him from the gruesome promise. Hadassah stared at the cards still in her hand. Like Isaac, these children were blissfully unaware of the danger. Would God stay her hand and save them, too?

No, she thought miserably, because she lacked Abraham’s courage. His faith . . .

“Hadassah, I’ve brought a friend,” Morty called from the doorway.

She glanced up to find a short, stocky man standing beside her uncle. The stranger carried a large blanket roll over one shoulder.

“Yaakov Kadlec, meet my niece.”

Yaakov bobbed his head in greeting, then shifted the wrapped weight in his arms. A soft groan emitted from beneath the blanket.

“Joseph?” Hadassah left the chair and rushed to them. “Let me hold him!”

Yaakov transferred the child into her arms. “Who did this?” she cried, seeing Joseph’s bruised face. Glaring at the two men, she clutched the boy, rocking him back and forth. “How could they hurt my beautiful boy?” she whispered brokenly.

“Hadassah, sweetheart—”

“Don’t tell me to ‘wait and persevere,’ tatteh,” she snapped at her uncle. “Not while they shoot and maim our children!”

Before he could respond, a shuffling sounded as people began crowding into the room. Others queued up beyond the door, their shabby clothes and meager faces forming a long island of misery. “I can’t do this,” Hadassah breathed. “I can’t send them to die.”

“You already know it will happen with or without you,” Morty said harshly. “So try and remember the names, daughter. Try to save some of the little ones.”

Her attention returned to those waiting to surrender their very
lives. She took several quick breaths to ease her panic, then kissed the top of Joseph’s head before handing him back to Yaakov.

At the desk, she removed the gray cloth from her typewriter—and spied the black Bible from her room hidden beneath. A sob of hysterical laughter rose in her throat. How was it possible? It had been tucked away, in her nightstand . . .

She shoved the book onto the table beside her and signaled to the first person in line. A dark-haired young woman approached, with soulful brown eyes and a face as battered as the fingers poking through her frayed gloves. Hadassah jammed paper and carbon into the typewriter. “Name?” she said.

“Clara Brenner,” replied the soft voice in heavily accented Czech, “137538.”

Hadassah couldn’t seem to move her fingers against the keys. She looked up at Clara and saw Mina, the woman she’d never met yet condemned to Auschwitz.

Her vision blurred and she quickly looked away. How could she obey the monsters? But then she thought of the little girl in the ghetto, reeking of urine and unwashed hair. And the other children who slept in the same room, wrestling their nightmares. If she didn’t, they would all die.

She felt cornered; self-loathing washed over her. Why hadn’t she been shot that day in Dachau instead of Anna? Why did God spare her . . . only to make her an accomplice to murder?

Tell me, Lord. I promise to listen.
Hadassah cast a desperate glance at the Bible on the table beside her. The book had fallen open to a page, marked by the photograph of Aric.

His image brought fresh pain. She’d tucked the snapshot inside the Bible after reading about Elijah. She reached for the book now and withdrew the photograph, staring at the boyish features of the man. Never again to see him smile, only recall the anger of his words.

She’d been so foolish to believe that once Aric discovered the truth about her, his feelings wouldn’t change. She thought
he might even champion her cause. But in the end, duty had outweighed all. He was lost to her, and with him any hope, however slim, of saving her people.

As for Hadassah, Hermann would likely have her shot after today’s task was completed. Or worse, make her languish in this place, typing more lists, sending more innocent souls to die. Was that how she wanted to live out her final days?

“For God
so loved the world that he gave his one and
only Son . . .”

Her gaze drifted down to a passage in John’s Gospel, of the New Testament. Hadassah shot a covert look toward her uncle before returning to the words. Why did they seem so familiar? Was it because of Marta?

No. It was Abraham’s story, she realized. God had spared his son, Isaac, yet according to the Christians, He later sacrificed His own Son for the love of His people.

“That whoever believes in him shall not
perish but have eternal life.”

She glanced up from the book. Aric had spoken of Jesus and His death that day in her room. That He had willingly died so that others might live.

The room had gone deathly quiet, yet Hadassah heard a Whisper as she glanced over at the precious bundle asleep in Yaakov’s arms. Then she looked at Clara, and behind her the sea of hopeless faces lined up at the door. Her people . . .

She began to type.

 35 

So the king took his signet ring . . . and gave it to Haman. . . .

Esther 3:10

A
drenaline pumped through Hermann’s veins as he pounded on the door of the commandant’s office. When he received no reply, he boldly entered.

The room was cast in shadow. His nemesis stood at the window facing the Fortress. “Herr Kommandant.”

The tall man at the window didn’t turn. “Captain.”

Spying the holstered pistol at the commandant’s side, Hermann resisted an urge to taunt him for making himself the fool over a Jewess. Perhaps he already knew.

Anyway, it didn’t matter. Once Hermann executed his plan, it would become a foregone conclusion. His damp fingers clutched the handle of his briefcase, which contained the sabotaged manifest as well as the secret letter sent from inside the ghetto to the commandant’s woman. Both would easily implicate Schmidt. Even Hermann’s men would testify—they still carried a grudge at being forced to give up half their food to the Jews.

Hermann forced a calming breath. His promotion would soon be forthcoming. General Feldman had been pleased to
receive his telephone call, especially when Hermann explained how he hadn’t told anyone else. He’d contacted Herr General first, asking for guidance in the matter.

His mouth twitched. That fat one was easy to read. His ambition to take full credit for the arrest and parade it before der Führer had been predictable. Though Hermann expected a just reward, he no longer held grand illusions of the Chancellery; it was probably overrun with men like Schmidt—or worse, the general. Instead he surveyed the office that would very soon belong to him. No longer in the cold, he would again have hot food and a warm bed.

After glancing over his shoulder at the pair of guards he’d brought with him, he stepped forward. “Herr Kommandant, you are under arrest for treason against the Reich.”

———

From his place by the window, Aric slowly turned to Hermann. “You are joking?”

“Nein, Herr Kommandant. I’ve got all the proof I need here.”

Aric eyed the briefcase Hermann held up for his inspection. “What proof?” he asked, trying to rouse his anger. Defeat already weighed heavy upon him—his beautiful dove, his future, gone. Yet he wasn’t going to let this cur deliver the final
coup de grâce
. “By whose authority do you dare arrest a superior officer, Captain?” he demanded.

“Herr General Feldman. Surely you know, Herr Kommandant, that during wartime, no rank of office is exempt from a charge of treason.”

Aric moved toward the desk, then halted as Hermann jerked his Walther from its holster. Pulling back the slide, he raised the barrel. “My man will take your weapon. Martin!”

Corporal Martin hesitated in his approach. Aric raised his arms, allowing the guard to relieve him of his pistol.

“Search him,” Hermann ordered. “You, Zeissen, search the desk.”

Aric’s eyes locked with Hermann’s while Martin combed him for other contraband. Finally he took a hasty step back. “Nothing, Herr Captain.”

Zeissen closed the last drawer. “Nothing here, either.”

“You two will make certain he stays in this office while I am in Prague. Now wait outside until I am finished.”

“What, no stockade for the prisoner, Captain?” Aric mocked once the soldiers left, his wrath finally awakened. “I would have thought you eager to see me caged and cuffed.”

Hermann grinned. “Herr General’s instructions were specific. A delicate matter, he called it—for Himmler’s prized bull.” He chuckled. “Putting you in stocks would draw unwanted attention, especially on the eve of the Red Cross visit. The fewer tongues wagging, the better.

“He was very interested to hear about your little deception. When I told him how you’ve been catering to the Jews, he wasn’t surprised that you would sabotage the train manifests and obstruct the Reich’s progress toward the Final Solution. In fact, he’s quite eager to see the proof.” Again Hermann held up the briefcase.

“We both know I had nothing to do with those lists, Captain.”

“Do we? You’re a clever man, Wehrmacht. More likely you’ve deceived us all. But too much bed sport has affected your brain if you think you could succeed, using that Jewess and her father . . .” He grinned at the shocked expression that appeared on the commandant’s face. “Ah, you’re surprised, then? About the Jew Elder?”

Aric reached for his chair and fell into it. He didn’t know the old man was her father. “What have you done with her?”

“Nothing, yet. But I do plan to discover what you find so fascinating—”

“Schwein!” Aric launched at him over the desk, but the muzzle of Hermann’s pistol stopped him.

“Careful,” Hermann warned.

“I’m a colonel! Why jeopardize my rank, my life, to delay the deaths of a few hundred Jews?” The callous words tasted bitter, but Aric needed to convince him. Stella was in danger.

Hermann shrugged. “War makes people do desperate things.”

“You’re insane. When Herr Reichsführer arrives tomorrow morning—”

“It’s already too late for that. I’m calling my men back in here.”

“Wait.” Aric had to find out how much Hermann knew about Stella. “You seem convinced she’s Jewish, and that the old man is her father. How do you know this?”

Hermann eyed him a moment, then shrugged. Holding his pistol with one hand, he slid the briefcase onto the desk and opened it. “Have a look.”

Aric donned his glasses before inspecting the water-stained note Stella had received from the ghetto. “Is this the only letter?” He glanced up at Hermann.

“It’s enough.”

“You plan to show this to Herr General?”

“Of course.”

Aric breathed a curse and, despite the weapon trained on him, stalked back over to the window. He stood several moments, a plan forming. Finally he said, “Leave it with me.”

Hermann snorted. “Do I look stupid?”

Aric turned to him. “Leave it . . . in exchange for my full written confession. I’ll prepare it for you now.”

Hermann eyed him suspiciously. “Why?”

“Captain.” Aric ignored the ache in his gut as he strode back to the desk. Time was running out. He had to save her. “We both know this arrest is a farce. But you want something . . .” His eyes narrowed on Hermann. “My position as head of this camp?”

He knew he’d guessed right when the captain smiled.

“I too want something,” Aric said.

“You’re in no position—”

“Do you know anything about Wolkenbrand?”

Hermann stood in flushed silence.

“Eichmann has ordered that on Friday, after the Red Cross leaves, all evidence of Theresienstadt will be removed,” Aric said. “I want Stella gone from this place before then. Otherwise she’ll be treated like the rest. That cannot happen.”

Surprised anger flashed across Hermann’s face. “What do I gain by protecting a Jew?”

“Offer General Feldman my full confession.” The ache in Aric’s gut intensified. “And give him Stella. I promise he’ll reward you greatly—”

“Until he sees the mark on her arm?” Hermann sneered. “Now who is insane?”

“Her new papers are in my desk, reissued last week from Berlin. There is also a letter regarding the error of her incarceration at Dachau, which explains the tattoo.” He returned to his chair. “Think about it, Captain,” Aric continued, forcing the words. “Make the general believe it and he’ll give you whatever you desire. Surely you’ve noticed how enamored he is with her?”

Hermann’s hazel eyes gleamed. “Clever Wehrmacht. So be it.”

Something felt terribly wrong.

From the kitchen archway, Helen watched Captain Hermann leave through the front door without his two soldiers. She returned to the stove and stirred the
Rahmkalbsbeuschel
—veal lights in cream being another of the commandant’s favorites—then removed the pot from the heat and set it against the sideboard.

Not that awful things hadn’t already happened, she thought, wiping her hands on her apron. She hurried from the kitchen toward his office, her head still swimming with events from the past twenty-four hours. Poor little Joseph had been sent back to the ghetto and was now bound for Auschwitz—no doubt due to that foul-smelling general who laughed too much and
ate enough for three people. Then there was Stella’s arrest this morning . . .

Helen sucked in a breath as her sense of dread turned into a tangible pain; she instinctively reached for the lavender scarf tied at her throat. She’d had this kind of sense before—five long years ago. Yet time hadn’t erased those memories. Every moment of every day that she opened her mouth and tried to speak prevented it . . .

She’d left the hospital that night after working second shift, willing herself invisible to the Soviet soldiers prowling the streets in packs as she darted in and out of the shadows toward home. Her city was again being torn apart. Centuries had witnessed Lvov tossed back and forth between Russia, Poland—even Austria held a two-hundred-year claim.

When her people recaptured their city for Poland in 1919, they had assumed an end to it. But twenty years later, as Helen walked the lamp-lit sidewalks, she sensed the danger of another coup. The Reds needed only to smell the first drop of blood before creating a frenzy that would make the city run red with it.

She had no idea the first drop would be her own.

A mob of soldiers, boisterous from a night of too much drink and womanizing, descended on her without warning. When she tried to run, a group of young Poles saw what was happening and gave chase. She suddenly found herself in the midst of battle as tensions broke loose between civilians and soldiers. They wielded rifles, clubs, knives . . . and the broken bottle that sliced her throat when she tried to flee the scuffle.

That night, the Reds won. And while she should feel grateful she was one of the survivors, Helen found that even with constant prayer it seemed impossible to forgive those who had consigned her to a life of silence.

She reached the library and recognized Corporal Martin standing with another soldier outside the colonel’s office. She nodded to him as she approached the door.

“Nein, you must stay out!” Martin’s uniformed sleeve shot out to halt her progress.

Helen gave him her best smile. He was young enough to be her son, if she’d mothered one. Young enough to have his backside paddled, too. She pointed toward the door, then opened her mouth and gestured with her fingers.

“Time to eat?” Martin sniffed the air. The aroma of her Rahmkalbsbeuschel wafted through the house. “Zeissen, you smell that? We have to eat canned rations while that Jew lover gets home-cooked meals.” He glanced at Helen. “Get us some food.”

She smiled again, waving at them to follow her.

“We can’t leave our prisoner,” the one called Zeissen said. “Bring the food in here.”

The colonel was being held against his will? Helen hid her shock as she bobbed her head and left the library. Returning to the kitchen, she pulled the rosary beads from beneath her scarf and said a quick prayer for what she was about to do.

There were advantages to being mute, she decided after she’d finished her prayer and headed toward the back of the house. People usually told her everything; some even gave her their deepest secrets for safekeeping. Others had the foolish misconception she was stupid as well as dumb. They underestimated her.