Wildflowers of Terezin (5 page)

"What does it look like I'm doing?" Henning reached under the mat for a set of keys, then started up the engine. "Now hurry up and get in before somebody sees us."

"This is crazy!" Steffen stood his ground. "I'm thinking maybe you belong back there in the psychiatric ward, too.And I will not have any part in this."

"Would you shut up and quit complaining?" Henning jumped out and guided Steffen by the elbow around to the passenger side and nearly shoved him inside. And in his condition, Steffen could hardly resist. But in the process he couldn't help noticing the handle of a small pistol tucked into Henning's belt, hidden only partially by his shirttail.Steffen pointed at the weapon.

"Do you want to tell me what that's all about?"

Henning didn't explain as he slammed the passenger door, ran back around and climbed in the driver's side, and put the car in gear.

"Henning!"

"What? I didn't steal it, if that's what you're worried about.In fact, I use this thing all the time. It's a 1934 Buick. I like the American cars, don't you? We picked it up for not so much when the Falck rescue people were getting new ones just before the war. So all you have to do is sit still and stay quiet."

"I'm not talking about the ambulance, Henning, although I have to say it worries me a little. But the gun. I'm talking about the gun. You can't be serious about this. What if we're stopped?"

"Oh. Well, actually, we won't be stopping for anybody— especially not Germans."

"But . . . you really wouldn't use it, would you? I've never seen you with a gun, before."

But now Henning wasn't answering any more questions as he grit his teeth and they wound through the narrow streets of København. And true to his word, Henning almost didn't stop for pedestrians or bicyclists making their way home from work. He followed
Lygtenvej
along the rail line, then turned underneath the line and weaved through a sea of bicyclists on busy Nørrebro Street and past the park to Sankt Stefan's Kirke—most surely not named for its current pastor.

Steffen had come this way a thousand times on his bicycle, only never like this. He tried to ignore the pain in his side and the stitches that threatened to burst. And Henning grinned as they turned into the back entrance, screened by several trees.

"By the way," said Henning, "I'd watch out for that nurse, if I were you."

"Pardon?" Steffen tried his best to sound confused.

"Don't play dumb; you know what I mean, Steffen.Anybody could see the way you were keeping an eye on her.And I have to say, it looked mutual to me."

"You're seeing things."

"I sure was. But tell me. You know I'm not a theologian or anything like you, but isn't there some kind of church law against pastors dating Jewish nurses?"

"Oh, brother." Steffen shook his head. "Look, I don't know what you think you saw, but you're way ahead of yourself, or way off. There's nothing to worry about. Nothing at all."

"Whatever you say, big brother." The grin never left his face as they pulled up in the back alley behind the church with a squealing of tires. "But I'd still be careful. And here we are."

Henning kept the motor running and the lights off while Steffen actually wondered what his brother had seen. Had it really been that obvious? Henning stepped around outside and opened the passenger door.

"So for now you just need to get back into your church and lay low," he told Steffen in a low voice. "Take it easy, all right? Don't tell anyone about the shooting thing, if you can help it. Just say you had a bike wreck."

Steffen could only nod dumbly. What else could he say now?

"I didn't want to pull up in front of your apartment building and attract a lot of attention," Henning went on. "Are you going to be okay getting home?"

Steffen nodded through the throbbing pain in his side as he pulled himself out. The early afternoon had not yet warmed up that day, and a hint of fog seemed to hang around the rooftops and towers of the city, waiting to strangle its life. Maybe that's what would happen now, and he looked up at the mist that swirled about the sturdy bell tower of Sankt Stefan's. He had always admired the imposing red brick building, ever since he was a young boy and he'd craned his neck to take it all in.

"Steffen?" Henning roused him from his dark thoughts.

"Right." Steffen shivered and stepped away from the ambulance."I guess I know who to call now, if I ever need a ride."

"I told you to forget it," replied Henning, placing the ambulance back into gear. "Go back to your sermons. Take the people's minds off the war. Stay inside your church. That's where you belong."

Steffen didn't answer and he didn't even have a chance to thank his brother before the ambulance sped off again and disappeared around a corner, leaving him standing there alone.

"You really know where I belong?" Steffen asked the quiet street. "I don't even know that."

At the moment he didn't care to discuss the matter, however.Not even with God and certainly not with his brother.So after unlocking the back entry he slipped into the cool, comfortable embrace of the church building. Maybe Henning was right. Here it smelled of Scriptures and dust, communion wafers and the faintest hint of candle wax. Here he didn't even need to find a light switch; he knew every passage, hallway, and stairway by heart, and if he ever went blind that might be a useful skill. And though he didn't need to, he closed his eyes briefly as he ambled slowly down one hallway, then the next, and painfully mounted the twelve steps up to the next level and the small room he called his office.

Strange,
he thought, noticing for the first time a weak glow spilling out from under the solid oak door. Who would have left the light on?

He found out in a moment, when Margrethe the janitor scrambled from behind his desk as she saw him opening the door.

"Margrethe! I wasn't expecting to see you!" He had jumped nearly as much as she had—though with her portly build she would have a more difficult time gaining altitude. He sometimes wondered how she managed to maintain her weight despite food rationing for the past four years of German occupation, and on her salary. Perhaps it was just that way with some women.

"Oh! Pastor! Nor I you. I mean . . . I was just doing some dusting. I didn't hear you coming." Margrethe stumbled over her feather duster and her words.

He looked around his comfortable little world to see that everything appeared undisturbed. Bookcases loaded down with Bible commentaries and the occasional murder mystery filled one wall. These were his friends.

A glass display case housed several souvenirs from his competitive rowing days with the D.S.R., the
Danske Studenters Roklub,
or Danish Students Rowing Club. His favorite, an inscribed bronze rowlock, took its place next to all the little rocks he'd collected from different places around Danmark: a small jet-black stone from the northern tip of
Skagen,
chalk from the white cliffs of
Møen,
a round gray rock from the remote island of
Bornholm.
These were his memories.

His large walnut desk—the only piece of furniture to come with the study—took up most of the remaining space.

On the wall, a framed photo of his parents with him and his younger brother could probably have used dusting. So could the ledge below his only window, which looked out over a lovely copse of elms planted along the north side of the church building. Their leaves were just beginning to reveal traces of autumn gold, and their branches supported the little bird feeder he'd hung in front of his window a couple of years ago.

Piles of sermon notes lay scattered on his desktop. But now Margrethe had noticed something else that needed straightening.

"Your face, Pastor! Are you all right?"

"Quite well. Just a little, er, bicycle incident. Accident."

She looked a little more closely as he pulled the front of his coat a little more tightly to hide his shirt.

"I hope I don't have a bicycle accident like that," she finally told him.

"Ja,
well, I'm a little banged up, but none worse for wear.Still ready for Sunday."

"That's good to hear." She gathered up her things. "Actually I was just finishing up. A couple more pews out in the sanctuary to clean. And the floor. I'd better go."

He didn't ask what might be so dusty that she'd had to open his desk drawer, he just stepped aside as she shuffled past him and out the door. Well, Margrethe was always thorough.His stomach rumbled as he checked his watch.

Two-thirty? To Steffen it felt like dinnertime, and all the more when he remembered how little food he had at home in his tiny, cold apartment, just across the street on Nørrebrogade. He thought he had a couple cans of green beans, perhaps. He could heat up one of them on his little single-burner Primus kerosene stove, along with a dry piece of pumpernickel and a mystery sausage. Or maybe a bit of pickled herring, again?