Wildflowers of Terezin (40 page)

But they had played their roles for the Red Cross visitors, perhaps all too well. They had done what the Nazis had demanded, thinking their cooperation might buy them a greater measure of safety. Instead for their complaisance they had received a one-way ride to a death camp in occupied Poland, if rumors could be believed. Wherever they were going, most surely they would not be coming back.

Finally the last truck rumbled past and disappeared in a cloud of smoke, on its way out of the same city gate through which Hanne and the other Danish Jews had once entered.The gendarmes shut the chain-link gates, their dogs straining and snapping at the air from the end of their short leashes.After a minute or two a large rat scurried across the street and after a look around disappeared into a sewer drain. After that two small children peeked out of a street-level door, then chased each other around the corner. Finally a mother followed them outside, keeping a wary eye on the gate and the dogs. One by one this weary cast of survivors took to the streets again.

Now Hanne could finally turn back to the empty clinic, though her head throbbed with the awful truth of what was happening there—as if she needed yet another reminder. At the same time, yet another reminder stared her in the face: All the nice new equipment that had been set up around the clinic for yesterday's visits had already been pulled out and shipped away to its intended destination. Probably a German field hospital, or perhaps an actual clinic in Berlin—one that did not treat Jews. She could make out the marks on the linoleum floor where they had been parked for their short display.Dr. Janecek stood staring at the empty room, as if mourning the loss, as well.

"They waste no time," he declared, hands on his hips. "Do they?"

"Did you hear the trucks?" She motioned toward the door.He nodded.

"I heard."

"All those people we worked so hard to help," she said, rolling up a stray bit of gauze and tossing it on the exam counter."And they're just taken away to die. What's the . . ."

Her voice faded away. She could not finish her question, so Doctor Janecek kindly filled in the words for her.

"What's the use? What's the point? Hanne, you know the answer. We all die. Some sooner. Some later. You and I, we just do what we can today, and we leave the rest to
HaShem.
He has brought us here for a reason, you and I."

She nodded absently as he went on. Like other observant Jews, Dr. Janecek used the respectful term for God,
HaShem,
to avoid misusing the Lord's name. Thus
HaShem,
or "The Name."

"You remember it is written? '
HaShem
is a refuge for the oppressed, a stronghold in times of trouble. Those who know your name will trust in you, for you,
HaShem,
have never forsaken those who seek you.' "

Hanne thought she recognized the words of a familiar Psalm, but still she had no answer. He rested a hand on her shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Hanne. You've seen much more than you want to see, I'm sure. It's all
meshugge,
you know. Insane. So if you'd like to take a break, I would understand. Even if you'd try to find something else to do, I would understand that, too. Like it, no. Understand, maybe. But you do such good work, and you have such heart. You're like a wildflower that has bloomed here in Terezin. We still need you here."

A wildflower. How sweet of him to say such a thing. She nodded as a mother came into the clinic with a crying child in tow. What else could she say? Perhaps he was right:
HaShem
had brought her here for a reason. In her mind there really was no choice.

"I'd like to continue working here, if I may." She nodded at their new patients. "The children. They need someone."

"I had a feeling you'd say that."

He smiled crookedly, despite what they'd been through the past couple of days, and helped her clear off the nearest exam table. They might not have the latest equipment, and they might not have many supplies. But they could do what they could, with what they had.

SANKT STEFAN'S KIRKE, KØBENHAVN

SUNDAY MORNING, 25 JUNI 1944

God creates out of nothing. Wonderful you say.

Yes, to be sure, but he does what is still more wonderful:

he makes saints out of sinners.

—SØREN KIERKEGAARD

S
o glad you made it home safely." Pastor Viggo was the first to greet Steffen on Sunday before the service as they both stepped into Sankt Stefan's foyer. Steffen smiled and sighed as he looked up to see morning sunlight streaming in through stained-glass windows.

Home!

"So am I." He shook Pastor Viggo's hand. "So am I. And you know I'm grateful to you for filling in last week."

"It was nothing." Pastor Viggo casually waved off the thanks. "I could preach that week's sermon in my sleep. And I probably have, several times."

They laughed at that, but Steffen had to rub a bit of soreness in his throat and in the glands below his jaw.

"You're feeling all right?" asked Pastor Viggo.

Steffen rolled the stiffness from his shoulders and cleared his throat. "Maybe just a little something I picked up along the way.
Ingenting.
Nothing serious."

Or so he thought. But by the time he stood up in front of the congregation that morning, he knew that the "little something" was perhaps more than just a little.

"Pardon me." He took an extra sip from a glass of water under his podium and tried to work through his hoarse voice.That only made it worse, and he had to pause several times before getting through the lackluster sermon. Afterward Pastor Viggo patted him on the back and told him they could certainly postpone the lunch gathering they'd planned.

"No, no. I'm fine, really." Steffen had always thought that he could talk a sore throat out of existence, and that denial carried with it nearly as much power as prayer. He put on a brave face. "Besides, they've all been waiting to hear about the trip. I don't want to disappoint them."

So he didn't, and he met with seven couples in the small overflow room they used for a modest library. Pastor Viggo's wife had brought extra pickled herring for him along with a rare loaf of excellent pumpernickel, which made it all worthwhile.

"I haven't eaten this well in months," he admitted to the little group, and it was the truth.

"But you have to tell us what you saw on your trip," said an older gentleman named Jens Lund. He was one of those who sat in the second pew every week without fail, intent on the sermon and singing off-key. "Was it as pleasant as we've heard?"

Steffen suddenly felt a little too hot around his collar, and he thought perhaps someone should open a window. He mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. He thought about what Herr Madsen had told him about not spreading rumors, and he thought about what Hanne had told him, and what he knew to be true. And Pastor Viggo stood up for him.

"The pastor is still a little tired from his travels," he said."Perhaps he would prefer to bring us a full report a little later."

"No." Steffen held up his hand. "I've been home two days, now, and I'm as rested as I'm ever going to be. Just a little warm, perhaps. Is it just me, or is anyone else warm?"

The rest of the small group looked at each other and shook their heads. Viggo's wife still kept a knitted shawl wrapped around her shoulders. All right, then; it was just him. He sighed and went on. These people deserved to hear the truth, not a whitewashed official rumor, especially after all their faithful giving. He mopped his forehead again and cleared his mind.

"Herr Lund, you asked if Theresienstadt is as pleasant as you've heard, and I must tell you the truth: What we were shown was clean and nice."

The little group seemed to relax at his announcement.Obviously they'd been waiting for some good news, hadn't they? But as he looked from face to face, he knew without exception he could trust each one.

"But that's not the whole story," Steffen went on. "Because we were deceived. Deliberately and systematically deceived."

He made sure to emphasize the "deceived" part, as if he were delivering a pointed sermon. And everyone in the group seemed to hold their collective breath as Steffen explained.

"The Red Cross officials and I were only allowed access to a narrow section of Theresienstadt. They made certain we never veered from their predetermined route. It was decorated and painted and made to look pleasant. Beyond that there's a much darker side, where people are starving and where they live in constant fear of being transported to death camps in other places. Living conditions are harsh and medical treatment is poor at best."

He mopped his forehead once again, wishing he could shrink away. But he had more to say, and they deserved to hear it. He even noticed Margrethe standing in the hallway, as well, holding a mop and listening. Well, perhaps she should hear his report, as well.

"Perhaps Theresienstadt isn't the hell we feared. But to borrow an analogy from our Catholic friends, it is the worst kind of purgatory. It's the doorstep to the worst kind of evil you can imagine, and in Christian conscience we must continue to do everything we can to help those who are unjustly enslaved there by their Nazi captors. Jens, since you asked, we are being deceived. And I was sickened by what I witnessed there."

Perhaps literally, as well. He looked around at the wideeyed little group of faithful people. Poor Jens Lund sat with an uneaten bite of pickled herring still on his fork, hoisted halfway to his gaping mouth.

"I'm sorry." Steffen held the side of his head to keep it from throbbing, but he couldn't help now feeling as if he had stepped into a furnace. "I didn't mean to overwhelm you all with such a grim report. And thank you, everyone, but I'm afraid I do need to excuse myself. Perhaps I do need a little nap, after all."

With that he dropped his napkin and pulled himself to his feet, a little unsteadily at first, then made his way to the door.Pastor Viggo intercepted him with an arm slipped around his shoulders.

"I'll walk back to your apartment with you," he offered, but Steffen shook his head no.

"There's no need. It's just—"

"Your face looks flushed, my boy. I think it's a touch of something serious."

"I'll be fine in the morning. But thank you for your concern."

He smiled and waved again at the others as if everything was as fine as he made it out to be, then felt a touch of conscience as the fever shook him in cold shivers. His head and shoulders ached.

Perhaps I shouldn't have been so stubborn,
he told himself.Perhaps it would have been better to have Pastor Viggo walk him home, after all.

He paused at the street corner just outside the church to lean against a building as a wave of nausea swept over him.By this time his throat had nearly clamped shut in pain and he gasped for breath. A passing bicyclist slowed and stared but did not stop, but Steffen did not notice as someone else came up behind him and took him by the arm.

"You're not as well as you say," said Margrethe, nearly pulling his arm loose as she guided him down the sidewalk. "You should be home in bed."

"Yes," he agreed without question this time. Good thing he lived so close.

Now he looked over at her and saw something different in her face, something anxious—almost the way his mother might have looked at him when he was a little boy and sick with a stomach flu. But by this time he was having trouble keeping focused as his mind spun and his body shook. So cold, and yet so hot. He thought he remembered her asking for the keys to his apartment door, and he thought he remembered fishing them out of his trousers pocket.

But then?

Steffen would have written Hanne again much earlier than he did, but two weeks flat on his back in bed weakened him more than he expected. After that, all he could manage was to crawl out of bed and scribble a few lines.

Please forgive the delay,
he told her.
But my brother says I needed to rest. It's too bad I could not have asked your medical opinion, as I'm not so sure about his. I am, however, much better than I was.