For Such a Time (24 page)

“What about Joseph?”

He hesitated, but before Stella could demand an answer, the creak of library doors signaled the general’s return. “We’ll talk later,” Aric said. “I must fetch Captain Hermann. Remember to lock your door tonight.” He kissed her once more and left.

Stella wandered into the living room to stand in front of the blazing hearth. But the flames did little to assuage the cold that permeated her.

Aric had given her no choice. He’d simply commanded that she wed him and leave Theresienstadt as if she were one of his soldiers. Never mind that the ceremony would be a farce. Stella Muller didn’t exist, except on paper. And her uncle would never approve of a Jew marrying a Gentile. No, this couldn’t possibly be God’s plan to save them all. If she left with the Red Cross, her uncle would slip beyond her reach. And Joseph . . .

The house seemed quiet except for the crackle of flames. Too quiet. She left the hearth to seek out the boy, going first to his room at the back of the house.

Helen sat beside the softly snoring Rand, her fingers moving rapidly over a beaded rosary.

Stella felt the first stirrings of fear, seeing the housekeeper’s normally stout features drawn with worry. “Joseph’s not in the house, is he?” Before Helen could indicate her answer, Stella said, “Did he come back from the ghetto this afternoon?”

Helen shook her head, gripping the black beads tighter. Stella darted from the room toward the kitchen. Joseph was probably freezing!

Reaching for her coat on the peg, she hesitated. The idea of entering the ghetto on her own terrified her. What if they locked her inside with the others?

Perhaps the guard outside knew what had become of her boy. Stella shrugged into her coat, then snatched Helen’s hat from the wall peg before opening the back door.

A blast of bitter cold stung her cheeks as she stepped onto the porch.

“Achtung!” shouted a voice from the darkness.

Stella startled. “Herr Corporal . . . Martin?”

The soldier’s figure took shape in the inky haze. “Fräulein Muller?” He stepped onto the porch, his Mauser submachine gun poised to shoot. “Is something wrong?”

“Joseph’s m-missing,” she said through chattering teeth. “Do you know w-where he is?”

The soldier relaxed his grip on the gun. “The Hausjunge sleeps in the ghetto tonight, Fräulein.”

“Why?” Stella imagined little Joseph, cold and frightened. “Is he all right?”

Martin gave a snort. “I doubt it. Not after Herr Captain finished with him.”

“What are you saying?” she cried, as terrifying memories of
Anna engulfed her. She thought of Joseph’s missing ear. “What has the captain done to him?”

“Enough to make him regret his mischief.” Martin scrutinized her. “Why should you care, anyway? He’s just a Jude.”

Just a Jew
. Stella’s whole body began to shake, this time with fury—an all-encompassing rage that eclipsed her fear. Her little boy could be near death.

She advanced on Martin. “Take me to him.”

Martin set his jaw. “You cannot enter the ghetto, Fräulein. Now go inside and wait for Herr Kommandant’s return.”

Stella was unfazed. “You
will
take me to him, now, Corporal. Or shall I tell Herr Kommandant that you were paid to shirk your post the night Koch and Brucker attempted his murder?”

Martin stepped back, his alarm visible even in the dim light from the kitchen. “How did you know?”

“Do we have an understanding?” Chin raised, she waited, her heart drumming so fast she could hardly breathe. He would either argue—or shoot her.

Martin did neither. “Follow me,” he growled, and spun away into the darkness.

Stella closed the door and hurried after him, trekking the snowy half-kilometer distance to the ghetto. By the time they reached the main gate, her feet felt frozen. So did her courage.

She stood behind Martin as he addressed the guard, “Let us pass. We are here on Herr Kommandant’s business.”

A young pocked-faced sentry sat in the lighted booth. He eyed Stella while chewing on the inside of his lip. “Herr Kommandant sent her?” He glanced back at Martin.

“That’s what I said. Now open the gate.”

The barred doors swung wide to let them enter.

The night air was cold and crisp as they walked along the cobbled Marktplatz of the ghetto. Silence had descended along with dusk. No streetlights were lit. Only a three-quarter moon
illuminated the make-believe village with its festive storefronts and painted park benches.

A music pavilion built of pine had been added to the town’s square since her last visit, and inside the park a snowman in stocking cap and vest seemed to dance among the shadows of barren birch trees. Stella burrowed deeper into her coat. Where did her uncle sleep tonight? Was he warm enough? Were his feet healing?

“The boy will be in the children’s quarters.” Corporal Martin made a turn and halted at the arched entrance of a two-story brick building.

“Not the infirmary?”

Stella felt only mild relief when he shook his head. “In there.” He pointed toward the murk of an unlit hallway. “I’ll give you ten minutes.”

“Twenty,” she shot back.

“Ten. Then I’m leaving.”

She glared at him before climbing the steps and walking through the open entrance. Groping her way through the blackness, Stella ran her palms along icy stone walls until she found an opening to her right. She stepped inside.

The sounds of soft breathing mingled with an occasional whimper and moan. Stella felt overpowered by smells of mildew and unwashed bodies, vomit, and the briny stench of urine. Moonlight flooded the cavernous chamber from a pair of windows across the room. A dozen rows of beds, each stacked four high, stood along either wall.

Small dark shapes were huddled two and three to a bed. Stella crept forward and whispered into the dark, “Joseph?”

“Mama?” A thin, fearful voice cried from the shadows.

“Joseph . . . is that you?”

One of the shapes in the bottom bunk nearest her shifted. Stella moved close and saw that a little girl with shiny dark hair had kicked her covers onto the floor. With eyes still heavy from sleep, she shivered violently against the thin mattress.

Stella knelt to retrieve the blanket.

“Mama!”

Tiny arms like bird’s wings shot out to encircle her neck. Stella reached to embrace the little girl. Her skinny torso and limbs stank of lice powder and sour clothing.

“Mama, I had a bad dream,” she whimpered. “Hold me.”

Stella gently rocked her. “Shhhh, it’s all right.” The child felt so small and fragile against her. “Have you seen a boy . . . Joseph?” she asked.

But the child merely tightened her grip on Stella, silently shifting her nighttime monsters onto adult shoulders.

While Stella held her, she called out to the room, “Joseph, are you here?”

Only a few muffled sobs answered. Beds creaked with restless children, perhaps fighting the same nightmares. Stella wanted to protect them, but felt helpless to do so.

And she still had to find Joseph.

“You must go back to sleep now, maideleh,” she whispered to the little girl in her arms.

“Mama, don’t leave me!” the child cried anew.

“You must be a brave girl for Mama.” Stella’s voice trembled as she extricated the tiny arms from around her neck and put the child into bed. Then she covered her with the blanket and gently massaged her limbs until the child’s tremors subsided. She’d done this so many times with Anna.

“I’ll stay with you awhile,” she said in a hushed voice. “Sleep now, and dream good dreams for me, all right?”

The child closed her eyes, and Stella tucked the blanket up beneath her chin.

“Unter . . . Yideles . . . vigele . . .”

She began to croon the lyrics of an old Yiddish lullaby.

“Shteyt . . . a klor-vays . . . tsigele . . .”

At last the whimpering ceased, the restless sounds growing still in the darkness. Stella sang on as she brushed back the matted dark locks from the child’s temples.

“Dos vet sayn dayn . . . baruf Rozhinkes mit mandlen . . . shlof zhe, Yidele, schlof . . .”

Stella rose and moved away from the drowsing child. She continued to hum the sweet lullaby while she quietly searched each bunk for Joseph.

She didn’t find him.

“Fräulein, we must leave!”

Martin’s shout echoed from down the hall. Stella only hummed louder. She refused to give in to despair as she scanned the rows of huddled forms. Loath to abandon the children, she knew if she didn’t, Martin would leave her behind.

She neared the door when the little girl sobbed, “Mama . . .”

“You must sleep now,
Liebling
,” Stella whispered around the knot in her throat.

Shading her eyes against the beam of Martin’s flashlight, she emerged from the arched opening.

“Are you satisfied now, Fräulein?”

Stella fought an urge to slap his face. She hated these Nazi monsters—for their cruelty, their self-proclaimed superiority, for treating little children worse than dogs. “Joseph wasn’t inside,” she bit out.

“What took you so long?”

“It was dark. I could have used that.” She glared at his flashlight. So much precious time wasted in trying to make out each child’s face. “We must try another place. Are you certain he’s not in the infirmary?”

“He wasn’t there earlier. Now, we need to get back—”

“I must see him!”

“Fräulein, it could take hours to find him.” Martin sounded
exasperated. “And even you wouldn’t dare to be caught inside the ghetto when Herr Kommandant returns.”

He was right. Aric would be furious. Still . . . “I thought we had an agreement, Corporal?”

“I brought you here, as agreed,” he shot back. Switching off the flashlight, he attached it to the strap at his shoulder. “If I hear any news about the Hausjunge, I’ll let you know. It’s the best I can do. Now come. Herr Kommandant and the others could return at any time.”

Stella plodded after the corporal toward the main gate. She’d promised to protect Joseph, yet she’d left him behind. Left them all . . .

Her chest ached, remembering the little girl’s thin blanket, the smell of her clothes. The lice that Stella couldn’t see but knew infested her bed.

How could she save them? To speak out about the injustice she’d witnessed would only reveal her whereabouts tonight. Aric’s anger would be nothing compared to losing the general’s latest boon—her chance to save Morty.

Stella ground her teeth in frustration. She must keep silent . . . and suffer the shame of her own impotence.

But Joseph was another matter, she decided fiercely. Aric wanted her safely tucked away in Switzerland? Well, she wanted the boy. And despite God’s plan or her uncle’s approval, she would agree to anything so long as the child was returned to her.

Even marriage.

 27 

Having learned who Mordecai’s people were . . . Haman looked for a way to destroy . . . the Jews. . . .

Esther 3:6

T
UESDAY
, M
ARCH
7, 1944

A
re you ready to give me a name?”

Dawn had not yet shown itself as Morty stood in Hermann’s office. The pain in his ankles had wiped away the last dregs of sleep. “Herr Captain, I have no name to give you—”

“What a relief it must have been yesterday when Herr Kommandant’s woman once again came to your rescue.” Hermann paused. “Provided, of course, you can still walk.” He rose from his chair and picked up the thick wooden dowel lying across his desk. He moved closer to Morty. “I could arrange for another treatment.”

Morty lowered his head and stood perfectly still. The hatred oozing from Hermann burned his nostrils. He tried to control his fear with quick, shallow breaths, making himself dizzy while he waited for the blow.

The beating didn’t come. Hermann instead surprised him by saying, “I’ve decided against it. A man of your courage would no doubt walk on bloody stumps if necessary.” He paused.
Morty could feel his stare. “I just gave you a compliment, Jew. Have you nothing to say?”

Morty swallowed. “Yes, of course. Thank you, Herr Captain.”

“I’ve also found an inducement to make you much more responsive to my questions.” He went to the door and snapped his fingers. “Sonntag, bring me the boy!”

Queasiness settled in Morty’s gut.
Nein . . .

A shuffling of feet sounded behind him. “Leave him, Corporal.” When the door closed, Hermann said, “Look at him, Jew.”

Morty swung around—and choked back a cry. Bruised welts ravaged Joseph’s face; he eyed Morty through two swollen slits along either side of his nose. A cut on his lower lip wept, trailing blood into the cleft of his small chin.

“As much as I discourage this type of violence, I can see it’s proving effective.” Hermann grabbed a fistful of Joseph’s jacket and hauled him forward. “Now, you will tell me what I want to know. It would be a shame to see this boy die before Wednesday’s train.”

Morty’s jaw clenched to the point of pain. He ached to knock Hermann’s teeth to the back of his throat. Instead he caught and held the boy’s gaze. A confession might spare Joseph only as far as Auschwitz. Still, he had to try. “You know I set fire to your office, Herr Captain. I also took back my . . . your Cross.” He nearly spat the words.

“Where is that Cross, by the way?” The captain sounded bored as he held the child.

“Lost,” Morty lied. “It must have dropped in the snow . . . when I escaped.” He shifted to ease the ache in his feet. “I’ve gone back to search for it several times, but cannot find it.”

“And our potato thief?” Hermann lifted the scrawny boy off his feet. “He warned Herr Kommandant of the attack?”

Morty went still. Even faced with death, he would never implicate the boy or Hadassah. “I don’t know what you mean, Herr Captain—”

“I grow tired of this, Jew. You and this one were hiding in my office when Koch and Brucker had their little discussion.”

Morty dared to raise his head and look the captain in the eye. “I was in your office. The boy wasn’t involved.”

Hermann seemed to consider his words. “Then you must have told him what you overheard. And he warned Herr Kommandant.”

Morty felt at a loss. If he tried to acquit Joseph, he would endanger Hadassah, and the boy would still be punished. His involvement as go-between would not be overlooked. He sank to his knees, ignoring the ache in his joints. “Please.” He glanced at Joseph’s limp form, then at Hermann. “I’ll do anything—”

“The truth!” Hermann gave the boy a hard shake. “Swear to your God and tell me what I want to know!”

Pain stabbed at Morty with each breath, and he grabbed for the edge of the desk. There seemed no hope, after all. His vision, a foolish dream . . .

“It . . . it was me,” Joseph said. His voice came out more croak than whisper.

“Go on.”

“I told him,” the boy added while Hermann dangled him like a puppet. “Herr Kommandant has been good . . . to me.” He raised his bloodied chin. “I was glad Brucker died.”

“Mmmm, yes, I imagine you were.” Hermann eyed the boy’s scar. “What exactly did you say to Herr Kommandant?”

Joseph turned swollen eyes to Morty. “I told him . . . when I was moving boxes from the Krematorium, that I overheard Brucker tell Sergeant Koch that he was angry about having to eat the Jew’s food. That he was going to get even with Herr Kommandant.” The boy ran his tongue across his bloody lip.

“Nothing else?” Hermann demanded.

Joseph shook his head. “I could not say more without . . . without Herr Kommandant wanting to know about the fire.”

“I always suspected you were a clever Jew.” Hermann grinned. “Sonntag!”

The corporal reappeared. Hermann handed off the child by his collar, like a rat caught eating stores. “Take him to the infirmary.”

Morty rose and watched the boy being carried away by the soldier. Rage battled with his pride at Joseph’s quickness of mind and his courage.

“I want cards for twenty-five hundred by noon today, Elder,” Hermann said, returning to his desk. “Include yesterday’s selections as well as those still in the infirmary. Everyone must go on tomorrow’s train—no exceptions.”

Twenty-five hundred souls
. Morty swayed on his feet.

Hermann flashed him a sharp look. “We both know there was more to that little discussion in my office last Friday, don’t we? Perhaps the boy knows, as well? But then, after tomorrow, he’ll no longer be a problem.” He leaned across the desk. “Which leaves only you.”

He looked down at Morty’s bludgeoned feet. “By the looks of it, we’ll be adding your name to the list, too. I admit Herr Kommandant’s woman has many fascinating
attributes
”—he eyed Morty with a smirk—“but she’s no reincarnated messiah who can make you walk again.”

Morty’s eyes burned.
Dear
God, give me strength . . .

“Maybe I’ll put you in with the boy. That way you can enjoy the stench of the same car. You can watch his face, knowing you take him—all of them—to meet their death. They’ll probably kill you before you even get there.” Hermann shrugged. “And if they don’t, the gas will. I hear it’s running all the time now.”