For Such a Time (31 page)

Not the colonel. He’d always appreciated Helen’s intelligence. He would never make the mistake of thinking
her
stupid, and she’d known him for over a year.

She had thought him dead at first, when they brought him into St. Nicholas’s hospital in Lvov on a gurney that night. Gunshots had torn up his right lung and bruised his spine so badly he’d been paralyzed from the waist down. He declined over the next few months and refused to eat. Helen became so concerned that she cooked for him at home—Apfelstrudel, Leberknödel, and
Tafelspitz
. She learned and prepared many Austrian favorites and brought them in, hoping to entice him over the bland hospital fare.

It worked. Slowly he’d regained his color and weight. When he departed for Sevastopal, she accepted his offer to accompany him as his private nurse. Then, when he miraculously healed and began to walk again, he asked her to join him at Theresienstadt as his cook.

A soft smile touched her lips. She’d been eager to leave the past behind, and he’d always been willing to make a place for her. Aric von Schmidt never asked questions and always treated her with respect and kindness.

Rand slept soundly on the cot inside Joseph’s room. Helen retrieved the bottle of morphine pills from the nightstand before she ran a quick hand across his brow. She considered waking him, but then decided against it. He needed his rest.

She all but skipped back to the kitchen. At almost fifty, she couldn’t remember the last time she felt so good. She even tried without success to hum an old polka as she ground the entire contents of the bottle with mortar and pestle, then dumped the white powder into the Rahmkalbsbeuschel.

Why the colonel ever decided to cast his lot with the SS she would never understand. They were all ignorant brutes; cruel and hateful, much like the Reds.

The colonel was nothing like them.

Ladling the tainted veal lights into bowls, she set them on a wooden tray along with forks and napkins and made her way back to the library.

“Food!” Zeissen rushed forward as she placed the tray on Stella’s desk. Helen beamed like a mother bird watching her two young chicks while the soldiers each ate an entire bowlful.

“Danke,” they said in unison afterward, rubbing their full stomachs. Helen picked up the tray and returned to the kitchen to wait. Fifteen minutes passed before she grabbed a spool of clothesline from the laundry. She was about to start back to the library when a knock sounded at the kitchen’s back door.

A gate guard escorted the old man, Morty Benjamin. The
soldier seemed nervous as he cleared his throat and demanded, “We must see Herr Kommandant at once. The Elder of the Judenrat is here on official business.”

Helen considered Morty a moment before stepping back and allowing him to enter. When the young guard tried to follow, she blocked his path—and gave him her most searing look.

“But, Fräulein—”

Slamming the door in his face, she turned and led the way toward the library. She found Martin and Zeissen just as she’d expected: both slumped over in chairs, their chins drooping onto their chests.

“You’ve been busy,” Morty said, taking in the scene. He raised a brow at her, clearly impressed.

She arched a brow back at him and then handed him the length of clothesline. He bound the soldiers’ hands and feet to their chairs. Helen removed their pistols, stuffing them into her apron pocket.

Her anxiety finally gave way, however, when she stood before the colonel’s door.

Aric sat in his darkened office, his mind numb and his limbs wooden, like the pull toys he’d played with as a child.

Was he ever really that young? It seemed eons had passed since the boy had charged happily through Austria’s green hills on the back of his pony. Aric had been warmed by the loving embrace of his mother’s arms; even his hard-nosed father had tousled his hair, giving silent approval on those rare occasions when his son had done something to please him. Before the war. Before Anschluss
.

They were dead now, his parents. Soon he would join them. It was unlikely he would survive, having offered up a full written confession to toadies like Hermann and Feldman. Aric had been in the party long enough to know words like
sabotage
and
treason
kept firing squads engaged in the lively business of shooting first and asking questions later.

No doubt he would be formally incarcerated, perhaps in the Kleine Festung once the Swiss departed. Then shot. He’d be written off as a bad example of discipline, a lack of fervency to the Führer’s cause.

But Aric had his own cause.

He looked down at the single pearl lying on his desk. He picked it up, rolling it back and forth between thumb and forefinger. He could still see her and imagine that beautiful column of throat, where strands of the precious beads had rested against her soft skin.

And by tomorrow night she would belong to the general. He felt an invisible vise squeeze his chest. The idea of that lecher Feldman touching her made him want to die.

Still, he’d made his pact. Aric let the pearl fall from his fingers into the wastebasket beside his desk. It sank beneath the charred ashes . . . all that remained of her private letter.

Now she could continue to pretend with someone else, but at least she would stay alive. The
Endoslung
at Theresienstadt would certainly still happen on Friday; the wheel would continue to turn, with or without him. At least the mass killing would not be at his hands, nor would he live long enough to be haunted by the faces of those Jews murdered behind the walls. Pathetic, hopeless . . . human faces.
“We want to live,
the same as you . . .”

Aric thought back to Dachau and how one woman had clutched the hand of a dead child as though willing her back to life. Stella had captivated him, drawn him in. She’d given him hope. He hadn’t figured it out until now—that he’d been counting on her to hold him like that, to resurrect him the same way she tried to save that little girl.

But she’d used him instead, to save her precious Jews.
Her people
. She must hate him now.

The chronic ache in his legs had become unbearable. Aric
rummaged through the top drawer of his desk for extra morphine pills. The bottle was empty. Slumping back in his chair, he closed his eyes. He seemed doomed to the pain . . .

His fingers curled beneath the seat, searching out the pistol taped to its underside. He retrieved the gun and laid it on the desk, running a hand over its short barrel. The
Westentaschenpistole
was small enough to fit inside a man’s vest pocket, yet quite lethal.

He’d already considered shooting his way out, but where would he go? What good would it do? She would still be gone, and he would still be the fool who had soldiered in a war fought for all the wrong reasons, sacrificing everything for another man’s distorted perception of glory. He was a man who loved a woman he could not have.

Aric raised the pistol and released the safety. Grazing the barrel along his right temple, he felt cold steel against his skin. An alternative he’d not contemplated before, it now held appeal. There was nothing left for him. There would be no more pain.
Dear God
, save me from myself . . .

“Herr Kommandant . . . ?”

A soft knock sounded. Aric checked the safety and dropped the gun into his lap. In the next instant, the door burst open to reveal not his guards but Helen—and the Jew, Morty Benjamin. “Where are Martin and Zeissen?” he asked dully.

“Sleeping in the library, Herr Kommandant.” Morty Benjamin smiled. “Your housekeeper is a woman of many talents.”

Helen blushed before ducking out of the office. Aric barely registered the pair of pistols stuffed inside her apron. He placed his own gun back on top of the desk. “What do you want, old man?” he asked wearily.

“I’ve brought you the final manifest for tonight’s train, Herr Kommandant.”

He slapped a sheaf of papers onto the desk. Aric ignored them. “She’s your daughter, isn’t she?”

The old Jew shifted. His gaze fell to the pistol. “She’s my niece. My brother’s daughter.”

Dry humor broke through Aric’s misery. “No wonder she went to such lengths to try and save you.”

Morty Benjamin seemed to take his measure before he said, “As you know, the manifest is always approved by the Kommandant of the camp. Herr Captain Hermann usually handles the matter, but in his absence, I’ve come directly to you.”

“What do I care about your lists?” Aric pushed the papers toward him. “Go to Hermann’s office and wait for his return.”

Gnarled fingers nudged the papers back at him with challenging vigor. “You’d better take a look at these.”

Surprised at the old man’s insolence—and his piercing look—Aric picked up the sheets and sifted them into order.

He rose and went to the window where gray light filtered through the barred panes. Fishing his glasses from his pocket, he put them on and stared at the first name on the page.

Fury blazed through his chest as he whipped around. “Is this some kind of sick joke?”

———

Morty eased out a breath. For a moment he’d been afraid the commandant was past convincing. Beyond comprehension of what was at stake. “I assure you, Herr Kommandant, deportation is not something we laugh about in the ghetto.”

“I made a deal with that mangy cur!” The commandant launched a fist into the wall next to the jamb. Plaster crumbled to the carpeted floor. He shook the papers at Morty. “She cannot go to Auschwitz, do you understand?” He marched back across the room to halt in front of Morty. “This list is unsatisfactory.” He thrust the papers at him. “Revise it.”

Morty pursed his lips. He knew he played a dangerous game. “I can do nothing about the list, Herr Kommandant.” Boldly, he met the gaze of the man his Hadassah still loved, on whom their deliverance now rested. “She won’t change
her mind, my maideleh. God knows, I tried to dissuade her,” he lied.

“I forbid it.”

Morty’s heart took a small leap. “If she must die, Herr Kommandant, why not allow her the right to choose her own way?”

“No! This is suicide—”

“Not suicide,” Morty interjected softly. “Not when the enemy holds a gun to your head.”

The commandant stumbled backward. In a seeming daze he returned to his chair and tossed the papers and his glasses onto the desk.

He stared at the small pistol still lying there. Morty followed his gaze. “Survival is the key instinct in all of us,” he said gently. “Yet it never comes without cost. Each must pay a price. With intellect or strength, for pleasure or pain. Some even barter their self-respect.” Morty leaned over the desk and caught the other man’s attention. “What price have you tendered, my son?”

“The highest of all, old man.” The commandant spoke in anguished tones. “I’ve sold my own soul.”

Morty straightened and smiled. “Then you must buy it back.”

 36 

All the royal officials . . . paid honor to Haman. . . .

Esther 3:2

H
eil Hitler!” Hermann saluted the two men standing near the terrace window. He’d been ushered into the elegant suite at Prague’s Hotel Europa.

“Heil Hitler, Captain,” General Feldman returned the address.

The other man eyed him from behind a pince-nez glass. “The general has informed me of the situation at Theresienstadt. I commend you for reporting this . . . difficulty.”

The SS-Reichsführer looked anything but pleased. Heinrich Himmler’s ferret-like features flushed against a thin-lipped smile. No doubt he wondered what der Führer’s reaction would be to discover Himmler’s “war hero” a traitor who had nearly sabotaged their Embellishment project with the Red Cross.

“Herr Reichsführer, I recommend the captain here to take over as Kommandant of Theresienstadt.” Feldman moved to join Hermann. “He has been at the camp over a year and proved most efficient in preparing for our visit—and he has been discreet. Colonel Schmidt will remain under guard and confined to his quarters until the Red Cross delegation has left. Afterward we can deal with the prisoner and minimize any embarrassment to the Reich.”

Silence ensued as the general’s well-aimed barb at the SS-Reichsführer hit its mark. Hermann’s heartbeat raced. His eyes darted to the general, and he saw the mouth that had consumed liters of beer the night before flattened with determination.

“Very well, General.” The SS-Reichsführer’s intensity shifted to Hermann. “You’ll be given whatever you need. Our visit with the Swiss tomorrow must proceed without event. I need not elaborate on our Führer’s expectations for this particular success.”

Elation robbed Hermann of speech. He bowed smartly, tapping his bootheels together.

“You’re dismissed, Kommandant.” The general sounded smug. “Telephone me with any problems.”

Hermann found his voice. “Jawohl, Herr General. I assure you that all will be in perfect order for tomorrow morning.” Saluting, he wheeled sharply and strode from the foyer into the carpeted hall.

He descended the stairs, taking note of the hotel’s grand opulence. Wide, arched openings and colorful murals were painted into each alcove, while brass sconces depicting cherubs hung above beautifully cut glass, guarding each portal in the lavish style of Art Nouveau.

The lobby downstairs wore rich walnut paneling with floral brocade divans stretched like languorous felines across tapestried rugs. Crystal chandeliers glittered high overhead, while higher still, frescoes of seraphim and the heavens caught the afternoon’s rays through a series of skylights along the canted ceiling.

Hermann appreciated the beauty; he envisioned the rich Aubusson rugs and plush leather chairs back at the brick house in Theresienstadt. The warm fire blazing in the hearth, the mouth-watering smells of Sauerbraten, Apfelstrudel, and freshly baked bread emanating from the kitchen—all of it would be his now, permanently. All except for the woman . . .

He’d kept his end of the bargain, allowing Schmidt to burn
her Jew letter after writing out his full confession. And the general was quite thrilled at the prospect of finally getting his dream girl. Hermann laughed aloud over the deception. The only way the fat general would ever know he’d been played a fool is if Stella refused to play her part—and she wouldn’t, not if she wanted to live.

He wondered at her progress with the revised manifest. Father and daughter both must be sweating blood to come up with the missing prisoners’ names. The notion felt like balm to his wounded pride. She would suffer for rejecting him.

Outside the hotel, Wenceslas Square seemed deserted. A pair of enlisted men, one wearing a non-regulation red scarf and mittens, huddled next to a fire barrel. Snow fell lightly from a muted gray sky. Hermann strode toward his car, impervious to the cold.

Kommandant!
His senses reeled with euphoria. The feeling stayed with him as he drove north along the narrow snow-dusted streets of the Vltava River’s east bank. At the Charles Bridge, with its thirty statue saints, he gazed with mounting anticipation across the icy waters toward his destination—the
Mala Strana
, the Lesser Quarter. He was glad he’d come alone.

Prague’s imperial castle of
Hradcany
and the twin spires of St. Vitus went unnoticed as Hermann drove on, his mind replaying the scene at the hotel. He was now in charge of Theresienstadt. He imagined Himmler and Eichmann’s pleasure once the Swiss were satisfied with the exemplary ghetto and its model prisoners. It could mean his promotion to SS-Sturmbannführer
.

Excitement coiled in him as he tracked deeper into the Lesser Quarter. Towering stone buildings rose along either side of the narrow streets, while gingerbread façades, darkened with age, housed many of the city’s small taverns and shops.

Hermann grinned as he mentally ticked off the remaining items to be dealt with at the camp. Aric von Schmidt must be made to try and escape, which of course would necessitate killing
him. Thereafter he would remain “ill and unavailable” until after the Red Cross had left.

Grossman posed no problem; the Wehrmacht’s loyal man was still abed with his wounds. Only the old Jew and his daughter remained. After tomorrow, Morty Benjamin would end his life in the Little Fortress—or the Wolkenbrand Schmidt spoke of.

Stella would go to Feldman willingly once she knew it meant her freedom. Hermann had yet to tell her of her good fortune. He’d make her get on her knees and beg for the new identification papers, however—then again for her opportunity to leave the ghetto.

He gripped the steering wheel hard as he turned onto a familiar street of tightly fitted houses. Wheeling the car up to the curb alongside a four-story building of blue-gray stone, he jammed on the brake and sat, jaw clenched.

He still wanted her. His mind began conjuring memories—of her kiss, then of Stella lying on the bed that morning, trying to shield herself with the proof of her treachery. He envisioned them together, yet he wasn’t certain what compelled him more: the need to conquer his fascination of her or the desire to show her what a real man—an SS man—was like.

Exiting the car, he jogged up a flight of stone steps to the front porch. He rang the bell. Moments later the door cracked a few inches. A voluptuous woman clad in a yellow silk wrap—and little else—stood in the shadowy opening. Beneath her mop of bleached blond curls, eyes heavily lined with kohl raked him up and down. “It’s been too long, Liebling,” she purred. Hermann said nothing but just pushed his way through the door.

Reasons didn’t matter; he would have Stella before the general did.