For Such a Time (8 page)

“You’ve been here mere weeks, Herr Colonel. How is it you’ve already become the center of our Führer’s attention?” The major
stabbed at several slices of roast beef and piled them onto his plate. “I hear he’s chosen Theresienstadt as his showcase for an upcoming International Red Cross inspection?”

“Correct, Major. Never let it be said our Führer ignores the rules of Geneva.” The colonel failed to hide his sarcasm. “Berlin informs me the Swiss should arrive in less than two weeks.”

He spooned a small portion of Käsespätzle, followed by carrots, onto Stella’s plate. She flushed at the snickers from the zoinehs across the table as they selected their own food.

“Will you be ready by then?” the major asked.

The colonel reached for a slice of the Sauerbraten and cut it in half on his plate. He glanced at Captain Hermann. “How is construction coming on the children’s schoolroom?”

“So far we’re on schedule, Herr Kommandant. Rebar for the new floor in the barracks has been laid and the concrete poured. But with this weather, it will take more time to cure.”

“Is our labor holding up?” The colonel placed half of his roast beef portion onto Stella’s plate, and she was relieved to note that he’d only served her as much as she could manage to eat.

Gratitude battled with her mounting resentment.

“A dozen have refused to work.” Hermann turned his cold, covetous gaze back on Stella. “They have been taken to the Kleine Festung.”

Her hand shook in reaching for her fork. Joseph hadn’t told her about any “Little Fortress,” but the captain’s tone implied that it must be a terrible place.

“I could loan you some Jews, Captain,” the major offered. “They’re healthy enough, and you can keep them as long as you like.”

“That won’t be necessary, Herr Major.” Hermann finally turned his focus from Stella. “We received a fresh shipment from Dachau a few weeks ago. All renovations will be finished by the second week in March.”

“Not good enough, Captain,” the colonel interjected. “We only anticipate a surprise inspection by then. All must be ready ahead of schedule.”

Hermann’s brittle features reddened. “All will be ready, I assure you, Herr Kommandant.”

“We will accept your offer of Jews, Major.” The colonel held Hermann’s gaze. “I cannot afford to take the chance, Captain. The Swiss are not stupid, nor is this a routine visit.”

He glanced at the other men around the table. “Denmark put them up to this. They’re upset that Herr Reichsführer moved hundreds of Danish Jews here last fall.”

“Because it spoiled their plan to steal them out from beneath our noses!” Hermann growled. “Now our Führer must tolerate the Red Cross interfering in our affairs—”

“To see how the prisoners fare, Captain,” the colonel explained. “A reasonable enough request. Nevertheless, I’ll inspect the ghetto myself. Tomorrow.” He glanced at Stella. “You will accompany me, Fräulein Muller, and take note of any last-minute details needing attention.”

She drew a startled breath. “Jawohl, Herr Kommandant.” Though it sickened her to hear them speak of Jews like farmers discussing workhorses, she burned with curiosity to see for herself what lay beyond those walls—without the peril of being a prisoner.

There were still risks, of course. Jews from Mannheim might live there. Someone could recognize her . . .

“I welcome your inspection, Herr Kommandant, but you’ll find everything in good order,” Hermann said in clipped tones. “That is why our Führer entrusted this important task to the SS alone.”

“Did he? I was told a
Wehrmacht
general,
Oberstgruppenführer
Feldman, has been assigned as the Führer’s attaché for this inspection.”

Irritation creased Hermann’s frozen expression. “No doubt,
Herr Kommandant, our Führer wishes to enlighten the Wehrmacht on true SS efficiency.”

“So you believe the German Army needs instruction from the SS, Captain?” The colonel reached for a helping of potatoes.

“Come now, Herr Colonel, quit baiting your poor captain.” The major grinned. “Your years of service do you much credit, but even in your brief time with us, you must see how greatly the SS differs from Germany’s other plebeian forces?”

“I see certain differences, Major,” the colonel conceded, cutting a wedge of cheese and offering it to Stella. “A Wehrmacht soldier, for example, fights where he is called, whether knee-deep in snow on the Russian Steppes, or in sand, marching across a North African desert. He fights other armed soldiers.”

He flashed each man at the table a challenging smile. “Forgive my frankness, but from what I’ve observed so far, the SS draws its battle lines inside the concentration camps, fighting unarmed Jews, Catholic priests, and a handful of dethroned politicians.”

The dining room’s warm, festive atmosphere turned chill with tension. Stella fell back against her seat, stunned. The colonel’s ridicule of the SS was only eclipsed by the startling realization he’d been a Wehrmacht soldier, just like her uncle. Did he embrace Morty’s same principles of honor, or was he like the other Nazis at the table?

“I served in the Waffen-SS two years, Herr Colonel.” Stocky Lieutenant Neubach leaned back, arms crossed against his chest. “I fought armed men.”

“I was at Babi Yar, Lieutenant. I saw Heydrich’s
Einsatzgruppen
in action.” The colonel’s tone turned to ice. “We both know what kind of men your Waffen-SS gunned down.”

“We were once the elite guard of der Führer!” Hermann’s voice rose as he pressed his hands flat against the table. “Hand-picked, highly trained Aryans of the purest race.” He glanced to the others. “That was before Herr Reichsführer’s office started recruiting anyone who could carry a gun. Italians, Czechs—”

“Wehrmacht castoffs, Captain?”

Hermann’s hands slid from the table. “Herr Kommandant, I meant no insult . . .”

“Of course not.” The colonel smiled, and Stella shivered at its lack of warmth. “Besides, it doesn’t change what we’ve become”—he met each man’s gaze—“chatelaines for the dregs of war, gentlemen. Dregs the SS created with their first camp at Dachau ten years ago.”

“If I were to put a smell to that statement, Herr Colonel, I’d say it stank of sedition.” The major tossed his linen napkin onto his empty plate.

“Treason, Major?” The colonel cocked an amused brow. “I sacrificed my body for Germany and have the bullet holes to prove it. The Fatherland has my allegiance.”

He tossed down his napkin, as well. “Mine are only the sentiments of a world-weary soldier. Each of you mourns the day the SS enlarged its ranks to include mongrel curs in what was once the Führer’s prized litter. I mourn the day I got out of bed and decided it wasn’t enough being the son of a gentleman farmer.” His acerbic humor vanished. “I believe on this point we can all agree that more is not necessarily better.

“This war holds us all in its grip, one way or another. We can only hope for a quick end.” He lifted his glass of wine. “I myself long only for the blissful silence of peace.”

“To peace.” Dita raised her glass, followed by a smiling Marenka. Soon everyone at the table held up their goblets, restoring a measure of warmth to the party.

Except for Stella. She stared at her plate of half-eaten food while coldness permeated her.
“O Lord, how
long will the wicked be jubilant? They pour out arrogant
words; all the evildoers are full of boasting. . . .”

The colonel wanted peace? How utopian, how simple, how . . . arrogant! Peace and quiet—like a nap in the afternoon, or curling up in a chair with a good book. And why shouldn’t
he? He had lost nothing in the war except a desire to return to his home.

At least he had one.

“Stella? Will you not drink?”

She glanced up at his frown, then lifted her glass with reluctance. The suffering wouldn’t end with the war. Even if the Allies won, Jews would have nothing to go back to. Death would continue to stalk them, hunger and disease decimating their numbers. And if Hitler won . . .

She closed her eyes and sipped the Burgundy. If that monster won, he would make certain not a single Jew breathed air in all of Europe.

“Now, we have at Theresienstadt the world’s finest musicians,” the colonel announced as he rose from his seat. “Since the ladies have finished”—he gave Stella’s plate a censured glance—“I’m certain they would rather enjoy dancing than listening to tedious politics.”

“Ja, we want to dance!” chorused the two zoinehs across the table. Each vaulted from her seat to grab the hand of her date and pull him laughingly toward the lively music in the other room. Hermann and Captain Hoth followed. When the colonel reached for Stella, she hesitated.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, Herr Kommandant,” she said, trying to bury her anger.

He read her too easily. “I think my wounded dove has turned into a fierce hawk,” he said, smiling. “You look as if you would claw out my eyes.”

She turned away, but he gently forced her chin back. “I told you from the beginning, Stella. There must be honesty between us.”

What could she say? That she felt incensed by his arrogance and indifference toward the suffering of her people? That what he considered merely a disruption to his peace of mind had devastated the lives of thousands of Jews?

Stella pursed her lips. She must remain silent unless she chose to barter away what freedom she had left.

“You will tell me later.” He spoke with confidence. “Now dance with me.”

She was too stunned by his command to object and allowed him to usher her toward the living room. Captain Hoth halted them both. “Herr Colonel, may I speak with you privately? I have information from Herr Obersturmbannführer Eichmann. He asked that I relay to you the newest details for your upcoming project.”

Stella felt the colonel’s grip on her hand tighten. “Of course. In my office.” He indicated to the captain the set of double doors off the living room.

“I’m afraid we must postpone our dance.” He gently rubbed the back of Stella’s hand with his thumb, and her pulse took an unexpected leap. “Go and enjoy the music. Helen is setting out brandy and glasses. I won’t be long.”

The idea of mingling with the butchers in the next room
and
suffering the captain’s lurid gaze made Stella’s insides clench. Still, she nodded and then quickly sought sanctuary in one of a pair of new leather chairs arranged alongside the hearth.

The chandelier overhead blazed with light. At the far end of the room a dozen men played a range of instruments: violins, cello, flutes, and accordions, while a thin woman in black provided accompaniment on a piano.

Stella absorbed the warmth from the fire as she listened to the music. Blocking out the other guests and their laughter, she soon lost herself in the sprightly notes of the “Berlin Dance.” Her eyes drifted closed as she imagined herself and Morty back in Mannheim attending the local concert hall, hearing the lovely strains of Schubert, Mozart, and the daring Wagner.

She began tapping her foot to the music—when someone grabbed both of her wrists.

“Care to dance, Fräulein?”

Her eyes flew open, and she gasped into the frightening, cold face that had plagued her all through dinner. Captain Hermann didn’t wait for her answer. Hauling her from the chair into his arms, he jogged her from side to side across the carpeted floor.

Stella’s body stiffened against his embrace, her panicked senses reviled by the stench of his onion breath mingled with the odor of unwashed wool and woodsmoke. Far from the clean pine scent of the colonel . . .

“Tell me about yourself.” He swung her back and forth like a rag doll to the lively polka. “Do you have family back in Germany?”

Trapped in his arms, she arched her spine to keep distance between them. She loathed him with every fiber of her being as he gazed at her chest with candid interest. She forced words from her throat. “M-my family is dead, Herr Captain.”

He didn’t bother with condolences. “Were you at Dachau?”

Paralyzed by his question, her mind scrambled for the right response. Thinking of the colonel’s far-flung explanation to the Gestapo, she whispered, “A m-mistake, Herr Captain. I was secretary to Herr Kommandant’s brother in . . . in Linz.”

Abruptly he halted their dance to stare at her. “Herr Kommandant has no brother.”

The room spun as Stella fought for air.

“When you arrived with your shorn head and bare feet, I had my suspicions.” He leaned close, his grip becoming painful. “But I know better than to argue with Herr Reichsführer Himmler’s shining star. Now, tell me the truth, Fräulein.” His hazel eyes seemed to cut through her. “Tell me you are Jew.”

 9 

Just as the king returned . . . Haman was falling on the couch where Esther was reclining. The king exclaimed, “Will he even molest the queen while she is with me in the house?”

Esther 7:8

M
orty turned his attention from the kitchen doorway to glance at the three zoinehs dancing with SS officers. Disgust at their display dampened his pleasure at being warm and dry for the first time in months. He felt disappointment too as he realized the woman he’d been so eager to see was not Hadassah. Even from his position at the back row of musicians, he could tell the blonde dancing with the tall major had brown eyes, not the Judean blue Joseph spoke of in his note. Perhaps she’d left the house . . .

A loud, discordant note rent the air. Morty hastily withdrew the bow he’d let slide along the strings of his borrowed Stradivarius. Asa Lokeran, a tall, wiry Belgian who once held first chair in the
Orchestre National de Belgique
of Brussels turned to glare at him.

Morty ignored the look as he uttered a silent prayer and scanned the room for Sergeant Koch. When he noted their escort’s temporary absence, he breathed a sigh of relief and focused again on the kitchen doorway.

He’d been foolish to let Yaakov talk him into this crazy plan. Yet the lure of food was impossible to resist, and Leo’s poor state had finally convinced him. The man was in desperate need of more than the potato peels and watery broth they’d been fed all winter. His cough had worsened; it wouldn’t be long before he was sent to the infirmary. Then Auschwitz . . .

Morty clutched the neck of Leo’s prized violin and pretended to slide the bow back and forth across the strings. If he’d listened to his mother and learned to play an instrument, perhaps he wouldn’t feel so conspicuous among his fellow musicians. He was a danger to them all!

Yet while Morty had loved classical music from his youth, his creative passion had taken a more tactile approach, using metal instead of abstract notes. As a farrier, he produced more than tack and shoes for horses; in Mannheim his popular ironworks decorated many verandas of the upper apartments near the
Parade-Platz
. Even the
Bürgermeister
owned one of his ornamental creations: a pair of swan gates enclosing the entrance to the mayor’s country home.

He crouched behind Asa Lokeran as Captain Hermann sailed by with his dancing partner. The red-haired zoineh looked terrified, her slim back ramrod straight while the captain jogged her across the floor.

Pity mingled with Morty’s contempt. Even prostitutes didn’t deserve such company.

A sudden movement flashed at the kitchen doorway. Morty straightened as Joseph smiled at him from the threshold. The boy held up Leo’s violin case, now filled with the night’s feast.

Morty’s mouth watered in anticipation. All night he’d had to swallow away the delicious smells filling his nose and tempting his belly. He nodded at Joseph, who hefted the case and began to cross the room in their direction.

Pride strengthened Morty’s aging bones. He’d laid out his plan in a secret message to Joseph the week before. The boy
possessed more courage than the best man in camp—certainly more than the likes of that coward Hermann.

The polka was nearly over. Morty glanced back at the dancers and spied the commandant enter the living room. That alone wasn’t remarkable, nor was the direct path he took toward Hermann and the redhead.

No, it was the rage contorting his aristocratic face that held Morty’s complete attention.

The commandant looked ready to do battle. The woman appeared to sag with relief. Morty grinned in spite of caution, then turned back to check the boy’s progress—

Sergeant Koch held the back of Joseph’s collar. As he jerked the child off his feet, the violin case stuffed with food crashed to the floor.

Panic flooded Stella’s senses even as she fought an urge to wrestle free and run upstairs to her room. Had Hermann discovered her secret? This monster sent Jews to Auschwitz. If he knew the truth, he would send her there, too.

“Tell me, Fräulein,” Hermann hissed against her ear.

Stella glanced wildly around the room, hoping for rescue.

The colonel was closing the distance between them. Filled with new strength, she pulled back to stare at Hermann. “I’m no Jew, Captain.”

“I don’t believe you. Convince me.”

He hauled her back into his arms. Stella understood his meaning. Memories of Dachau were still painfully fresh; her anger overrode fear as she opened her mouth to retort—

“Where are you going with that case?” a male voice boomed behind her.

Stella whipped around. Dita and the major, dancing beside them, also paused to stare.

“Herr Captain, I think our potato thief needs another lesson.”
Gold flashed from Sergeant Koch’s grin as he held Joseph in the air. “Answer me, Jew!” He shook the boy. “Or do we need to cut off the other ear?”

A violin case rested on the floor. Stella thought she glimpsed slices of Sauerbraten and Käsespätzle noodles protruding from its jarred opening.

She next glanced at the musicians; comically tragic gazes locked on the evidence while their fingers launched by rote into vigorous measures of Tchaikovsky’s “Russian Dance.”

Time froze, like a breath waiting to be released. With a flash of insight, Stella realized only she, Joseph, and the musicians had noticed the contents of the case.

The colonel was nearly upon them.

“Would a Jew do this?” She grabbed Hermann by the collar points and brought his mouth to hers for a kiss. He jerked in surprise at first, then crushed her against him, trying to deepen the contact. Stella gagged as she locked her lips against his further advances.

“CAPTAIN!”

The colonel’s roar seemed to bounce off every wall in the house. Stella jumped as Hermann released her with a shove, his expression a mix of alarm, confusion, and desire.

The music stopped. The colonel’s outburst held everyone’s attention. Sergeant Grossman charged in from the kitchen, his pistol poised. Lieutenant Neubach and the buxom Marenka stood next to the sideboard of brandy, clinging together, their mouths agape at the scene playing out before them.

Even Sergeant Koch had dropped his small charge to stare openmouthed at his captain and the commandant.

Every eye in the room was focused on them—and no longer on Joseph, who clambered on hands and knees to retrieve the case. Stella caught a movement at the back of the orchestra. A thin man wearing a camel jacket crawled out to switch cases with the boy and then retreated from sight. A man with unusually large feet . . .

“What in blazes are you doing, Captain?” A broad hand seized Hermann’s shoulder and spun him around. “Explain yourself!”

The colonel looked thunderous as he loomed over the captain. Hermann backed up a step, hands raised in supplication. “Herr Kommandant, I was only dancing with Fräulein—”

“That kind of dancing is better left for the bedroom, Captain, and not with my secretary.”

Nervous guffaws erupted near the sideboard of brandy.

Hermann flashed Stella a seething look. “I did not realize Fräulein was spoken for.”

Stella flushed. “I am not—”

“Silence!” The colonel turned his fury on her. “While you work for me, I expect you to comport yourself with more decency than some streetwalker.”

Stella drew back as if struck. How dare he dress her up and parade her in front of these Nazi pigs like some prize of war, and then humiliate her for it!

His green gaze never left hers as he said, “In future, Captain, you will refrain from fraternizing with my household staff. Verstehen?”

“But I did nothing—”

“Do you understand?” The colonel turned to him.

Hermann straightened. Resentment creased his icy expression. “Jawohl, Herr Kommandant!”

“Go have a drink.”

Hermann stalked away. The colonel growled at her, “I’ll deal with you later.”

His murderous expression made her look away—and she observed Joseph once more in the soldier’s grasp.

The colonel also noticed. “Sergeant, why are you molesting my houseboy?”

The sergeant released the child. He then lifted the case Stella knew had been switched. “I caught him with this. I thought he meant to steal it, Herr Kommandant.”

“Why would you think that, Sergeant?”

A heartbeat of hesitation. “Because he is a Jude,” the sergeant said, blinking. “They are all clever liars and thieves.”

As he spoke, the case fell open. It was empty. Amused chortles rippled around the room. Sergeant Koch flushed pink against the faint light from the kitchen.

“So you think a clever Jew would risk losing his warm bed, hot food, and a daily bath to steal an empty case?”

The colonel’s remark produced more laughter. Sergeant Koch shifted. “Nein, Herr Kommandant.”

“You will leave the boy alone, Sergeant.”

The sergeant clicked his jackboots together. “Jawohl, Herr Kommandant.”

The colonel turned his attention to the musicians. “Play!”

Yet the first notes were barely struck when the major approached them. “Herr Colonel, while I thank you for a most entertaining evening”—he flashed Stella a look of amused sympathy—“my driver tells me that new weather is moving in. We must leave for Litomerice.”

Lieutenant Neubach and the two women followed in his wake. Captain Hoth added, “I should also return, Herr Colonel, if I’m to reach Prague before the snow starts.”

Within minutes, Stella offered her perfunctory farewell to the bundled-up officers and women departing the house. The colonel then ordered a chastened Sergeant Koch to return the musicians to the ghetto.

Afterward he disappeared into his library, leaving Stella torn between a desire to escape to her room and the fear of angering him more by doing so. In the end she stayed and reclaimed her chair near the hearth. She lamented over the evening’s events. She’d behaved like a brazen hussy—worse than the two women she’d branded as zoinehs. Revulsion tore at her, and she buried her face in her hands. Even the memory of Captain Hermann’s touch made her ill. She could still smell his odor of onions.

He’d flashed her a killing look before leaving the house with the rest of the guests. She had humiliated him; it wasn’t something he would forget.

And how would the colonel punish her for tonight’s performance? Would he send her back to Dachau, or would he have his captain deport her to Auschwitz?

She raised her head to stare blindly at the flames in the hearth. There had been no other choice. If they caught Joseph stealing food again, he would lose more than the other ear.

The echo of dissonant notes drew her attention to the foyer. None of the musicians packing away their instruments wore enough clothing to fend off the freezing temperature outside. Their summer coats were thin and worn. The pianist’s knitted black shawl barely covered her shoulders. Occasionally they stole glances at her. What did they see?

She scanned the room—from the chandelier with its crystals glittering like diamonds in the firelight to the lush Aubusson carpet at her feet. On the walls hung expensive oil paintings, their gilt frames gleaming like golden hues of the sun. Even the linen tablecloth in the colonel’s dining room, now cleared of the night’s repast, shone like first snow beneath a pair of tapered candles glowing from its surface.