For Such a Time (5 page)

Staring back at the stranger with beggar’s eyes and hollowed cheeks, Stella wondered for the thousandth time how something as insignificant as a Nazi’s pride had turned her world upside down. Loaded into a cattle car reeking of unwashed bodies and excrement, she’d spent endless hours standing between sweaty strangers and suffocating from the lack of fresh air. Her parched throat had warred with the mounting pressure in her bladder as the beast that trapped them all in its maw plundered steadily along the tracks toward Dachau.
To God Forsaken . . .

She leaned against the sink, overcome by a sudden wave of exhaustion. The colonel was right. How could she leave when the simple act of getting dressed depleted her strength? How far would she make it, trapped in a body still so weak?

Frustrated, Stella stumbled back to her bedroom. She sat on the edge of the bed to wait for Joseph and again noticed the small black book on the nightstand. A Bible. She’d seen it the previous night but was too tired to take much notice.

She picked up the leather tome, feeling its weight. Her co-worker, Marta, had possessed such a book; many times her best friend had tried in her earnest, gentle way to convert Hadassah to Christ.

Perhaps that was why they
were
best friends, she thought with a wistful sigh. Marta’s efforts hadn’t borne fruit, but Hadassah was always touched by the genuine concern for her soul.

She let the Bible fall open to a random page and immediately recognized the words of Psalm twenty-two from her own Jewish
Tanakh
:

My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?

Why are you so far from saving me,

so far from the words of my groaning?

O my God, I cry out by day, but you do not answer.

Snapping the book shut, Stella shoved the Bible inside the nightstand drawer. The rest she knew by heart—King David spoke of hope and his complete faith in God for deliverance.

Her only deliverance lay in tatters. The ruins of her home in Mannheim, the haunted, glassy-eyed faces of those dead and dying at Dachau. Anna’s face . . .

A sharp knock sounded at the door. Stella’s mouth felt dry as she made herself move to answer it. Would her clerical skills satisfy the colonel’s expectations, or would he send her back to that place?

Joseph leaned against the jamb and quickly straightened when he saw her. A shy smile touched his lips. “You look pretty, Fräulein.”

His compliment had the power to bolster her confidence. Stella’s shoulders eased, and she offered an affectionate smile. “Now that’s something a lady always likes to hear, Joseph.
Danke
.”

He ducked his head shyly, then turned toward the stairs. Stella took a deep breath before she followed him down to face her new employer.

The colonel sat at the breakfast table, a sheaf of papers in one hand, while the other held a steaming cup of
Kaffee
. Perched on the end of his nose—a slightly crooked one, she noticed—were a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. The glasses lent him a disarming air of intelligence, and it struck her with the disconcerting notion that in different clothes he might pass for any other average man at breakfast.

He seemed preoccupied with whatever he was reading. When he finally glanced at her, he paused, the cup of Kaffee hovering near his mouth. Slowly he lowered it to the table and then removed his glasses. “Did Joseph fail to relay my message?”

“He did as you requested, Herr Kommandant. But I chose to come downstairs.”

“Turn around,” he said quietly.

Self-consciousness wrestled with her hunger as she inhaled
the tantalizing smells of real Kaffee and fried potatoes. Obeying his order, she bit the inside of her lip against the pain of her too-tight shoes and spun in place slowly.

He rose from his chair. “Come, you’ll sit here.” He spoke gruffly as he indicated the place next to his own. “Any more nightmares?”

A solicitous question. Intimate. Heat assaulted her cheeks. “No, Herr Kommandant.” Deciding she owed him at least a minimal courtesy, she added, “Thank you for . . . last night.”

“You’re welcome.”

Stella thought she glimpsed a smile before he returned to his seat. Her attention moved to the sideboard, anxious to see what she’d be forced to eat this morning. To her relief, she spied a tureen of steaming oatmeal, slices of buttered rye toast—and no pork. Once she served herself, she sat down and began eating the warm, thick cereal with enthusiasm.

“You want nothing on it, Fräulein? Personally I find it tastes like paste unless it’s buried under a mound of sugar.”

She glanced up with a mouthful of oatmeal.

“But I’m pleased to see you taking my orders seriously.”

His eyes lit with amusement, and Stella almost choked in her haste to swallow the food.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve eaten so well,” she said. “At Dachau we had gruel—”

The sudden fury in his expression stopped her. Had she angered him? Would he change his mind and take away the food? She tightened her grip on the spoon she held. “I’m sorry, Herr Kommandant, I meant no disrespect.”

“Eat,” he growled. Then with a sigh, added, “Please, Fräulein. Enjoy your breakfast.”

Stella’s hand shook as she reached for the silver tureen of cream, then the jar of golden honey. After heaping liberal amounts of each into her bowl, she held the spoon halfway to her lips before stealing another glance at the colonel.

He’d returned to studying his papers. She relaxed and ate more slowly, enjoying the forgotten delicacy.
Mmmm . . . oatmeal, land of milk and
honey.
Her eyes drifted shut as she lost herself to the creamy sweetness. She couldn’t remember when she’d savored such a treat, and surely it had never tasted so good.

When she opened her eyes, she found the colonel watching her, his features sharp. Like a hungry wolf . . . and she, the lamb?

Unnerved by his scrutiny, she picked up a slice of toast and cast a purposeful glance around her. In daylight, the soft beige walls of the dining room seemed more cozy than elegant. In addition to the sideboard stood a traditional German
Schrank
honed from walnut. Overhead, a spindled wood shelf ran along the room’s perimeter, exhibiting an array of porcelain plates hand-painted with exquisite flowers. Six pictures decorated the walls, pastoral scenes much like the painting near the stairs.

“They belonged to my mother.” He had followed the direction of her gaze. “I was fortunate to be able to bring them from Austria.”

“As well as the castle painting by the landing?” She was unable to get the comforting scene out of her mind.

“The picture of my father’s house? Yes. Baron von Schmidt commissioned a local artist in Thaur to paint it. I was born there—grew up there, in fact. I stayed until I left to go to university in Bonn.” His expression turned pensive. “Of course, being from Innsbruck, you undoubtedly recognized it.”

“Of course,” Stella lied, relieved that she had guessed correctly. “Did you ever return?”

“Once. Long enough to bury my father.”

He didn’t elaborate, yet Stella sensed his bitterness. He’d also said his “father’s house,” not his own. Was this another piece to the puzzle of his character?

“Enough chatter.” He glanced at her half-eaten bowl of oatmeal. “Finish your food, then back to bed.”

“Bed? But I thought . . . what about your urgent letter to Berlin?”

“See, you’re already proving to be a good secretary! Keeping the boss out of trouble with the boss, eh?” He grinned, and the hard lines disappeared from his face. Stella was again taken aback by his attractiveness; the slightly crooked nose merely enhanced his rugged features.

“I’ll take care of Berlin,” he said and patted her hand in an oddly affectionate gesture. “Actually, my giving you the day off is not as chivalrous as you might think. I must leave for a few days—meetings in Prague. You can rest while I’m gone. Now eat.” Retrieving his glasses, he took up the sheaf of papers he’d been perusing.

———

Aric glanced at Stella over the top of his report, noting how the dark half circles beneath her eyes emphasized her drawn features. Only her enthusiasm over breakfast tempered his anger each time he looked at her bruised face or the way her clothes hung loosely on her frame. He was amazed that he’d stumbled on to her in the first place; the
Lagerführer
should have caught the error on her papers when she first arrived at Dachau. Of course that meant believing the uniformed thugs in charge actually had the capacity to think.

The sight of her standing in front of a Dachau firing squad would haunt him the rest of his days. Half naked, with only a soiled shirt to cover her long-limbed frame, she’d leaned against a blood-spattered wall, gripping the hand of a child.

Aric shifted in his chair. He’d arrived at the precise moment a shot was fired—and the small girl crumpled like a rag doll. Stella’s face was taut, her blue eyes blazing, yet she’d refused to let go. The small corpse dangled in her grasp, a sight made more grotesque for its sheer desperation.

He may have originally gone in search of her because of his attention to detail, or the inconsistency of her papers, or even because he’d once known a Muller family in Innsbruck—but everything changed for him in that instant. He’d plowed through
the armed squad and bullied the guards for her release, then kept her off the train and instead bribed a Kapo to clothe her before stashing her inside the trunk of his car. Grossman drove with the speed of an all-out retreat to the nearby house of Aric’s cousin, Hilde Gertz.

Aric couldn’t understand why she mattered so much to him. The war had inured him to so much death and brutality; Stella was a stranger, who because of Gestapo malice had become merely another warm-blooded obstacle in the Reich’s path.

Yet, having returned yesterday to retrieve Stella from his cousin’s house after his business in Munich, he’d lifted her into his arms and felt jarred by his own fury. It was the first time in a long while something—someone—had moved him.

She was so thin he’d felt the protruding ribs beneath her thin cotton dress. Even this morning she seemed weak, enough so that he was glad he’d changed his plans.

Aric hadn’t intended to leave her alone, but Eichmann’s early phone call had changed all that. The SS-
Obersturmbannführer
was in Prague for a week’s summit before continuing on to Berlin. When he’d suggested driving up to Theresienstadt to meet, Aric convinced him the city would be a better venue.

Aric didn’t fool himself over his motives; he meant to protect her.
His wounded dove . . .

His jaded humor left him as he watched her eat. Last night she’d asked to leave. He’d all but refused her, telling her that he needed a secretary. Aric knew that wasn’t the whole truth of why he’d saved her. Still, whatever his real motives, he felt compelled to finish the task, to feed her until the hollows disappeared from her cheeks, dress her in fine clothes—blue to match the shade of her eyes—and pearls to encase her slender neck. She would smell of fragrant cloves and fine cigarettes, not body odor and fear.

He willed her to heal quickly. For the sooner she looked like one of his staff and less like a prisoner, the better. Until her hair
grew out and the bruises on her face and hands faded, she was in constant danger.

She emptied her bowl and then patted her mouth with her linen napkin. He noted a marked improvement in the healthy pink color of her lips. So full of promise . . .

“I’m finished, Herr Kommandant.”

A note of pride touched her voice. Aric let his report slide to the table. She sat perfectly straight in the chair with her hands in her lap, looking secretly pleased with herself.

Her fear of him had disappeared . . . or at least abated. A promising start. “Soon you’ll grow so fat you’ll be wearing my clothes,” he teased.

Roses bloomed in her cheeks, and her mouth curved upward. “I would need a lot more oatmeal, Herr Kommandant.”

Stunned by her first shy smile, he quickly recovered. “Then I’ll have a convoy of trucks deliver the paste each week, and two cows and a beehive for the backyard!”

Her smile blossomed at his words. So lovely . . . even with red hair. He rose from his chair. “Come, time to rest.” He held his hand toward her. She hesitated, but then took it.

Despite her frailness, she looked smart and sleek in the houndstooth. She would be lovelier still, given time.

Aric repressed the hope as swiftly as it began. Time was no longer a luxury he could afford. Nor was sentiment; it meant having to be human, to
feel
. He was a soldier, a machine, lacking the substance to change what he’d become, or the will to change what he must do.

Stella would get her wish; the phone call with Eichmann had ensured it. Yes, his stray dove
must
heal swiftly, for in a matter of weeks he would become the monster of her dreams.

Before that happened, he would set her free.

 5 

And Mordecai walked every day before the court . . . to know how Esther did. . . .

Esther 2:11

T
UESDAY
, F
EBRUARY
15, 1944

N
eedle-sharp barbs cut into Morty’s flesh as he grasped the
Pflanzengarten
fence. He immediately let go and cursed his impulsiveness. Sparing a glance at his fingers, he was relieved to see no blood leaking from the wounds. God knew there wasn’t enough of the red stuff greasing his frozen limbs to squander in the snow.

The vegetable garden took up an acre of land just outside Theresienstadt and was surrounded by perimeter fencing and a dozen searchlights. Only the lucky residents of the ghetto—those who tilled the soil and collected food for the Nazis’ plates—were allowed a glimpse of the world outside the fortressed walls.

Nothing grew now. Instead, only cold white drifts stretched across the earth that once gave birth to squash, carrots, and those precious red-tipped heads of lettuce. Nothing flourished except the hope that a few potatoes had escaped earlier notice and still lay hidden within their frozen womb.

The biting wind made Morty’s eyes water as he stared back
at the Mercedes pumping dirty white smoke into a leaden afternoon sky.

The new commandant closed the latticed gate and strode toward the waiting car. Where was she? Morty squinted, as if his gaze might penetrate the ochre and chalk walls of the brick house. He’d heard it from Saul Goldmeier, who’d heard it from little Joseph Witte by way of a secret message that there was a new guest in the house.

Saul was so eager to impart his gossip that the stingy sculptor had willingly shared leftovers from the commandant’s table, his coveted reward for gathering kindling in the wooded lot behind the property. According to Joseph’s note, the commandant had returned the previous night accompanied by a beautiful young woman—at least by the boy’s standards—with eyes the color of a Judean sky and hair so light it shone gold.
Like Hadassah’s . . .

“Psst!” a voice whispered behind him. “Get over here and help us dig before the
Hauptsturmführer
sees you!”

Morty glanced at his friends. Yaakov Kadlec and Leo Molski each held a pick and bent to the task of penetrating a mound of snow. Leo, a lanky middle-aged Pole, wheezed from the effort, while Yaakov bore the ruddy-cheeked, barrel-chested sturdiness of his Czech ancestors and emptied his lungs with even breaths. Steamy tufts curled beneath the brim of his felt cap as he ground the pick’s head into the snowbank and wiggled it.

“You’re thinking about her again, aren’t you?” Yaakov said, pausing in his labors. “I know you well, Mordecai Benjamin. Don’t try to deny it.” He shot a sidelong glance at Leo. “He’s convinced Herr Kommandant’s woman is his
maideleh.
”

Leo’s rheumy eyes focused on Morty. “Is it possible?” he said through clotted breaths. His skinny arms raised the pick only to drop it with an ineffectual blow. “This woman . . . could she be your little girl?”

“Ech!” Yaakov snorted. “If you believe that, Leo, I’ll convince you this is freedom.”

With a furtive sweep he indicated the barbed-wire fence. “We’ve been here years now, and this
yukel
”—he shot an impatient look at Morty—“still thinks she’ll come. He watches the gate every time a trainload of women arrives in the ghetto. Black hair, brown hair, green eyes, gray, it makes no matter—each of them is his precious niece. I doubt he can even remember what she looks like.”

Morty turned back to the fence.

“Ja, you don’t like what I have to say, Morty. But I tell you, you’re turning some kind of
meshugeh
over this nonsense.”

“I’m not crazy,” Morty called over his shoulder. “She’ll come.”

Yaakov muttered something under his breath to Leo, but Morty ignored them both. How could they understand? God sent
him
the vision.

The commandant climbed inside the back of the Mercedes. Why didn’t the woman leave with him? Perhaps she sat warm and cozy before the fire inside his house. Morty smiled at the possibility. If Joseph was right, if she was beautiful, she could be Herr Kommandant’s wife—or his mistress. Either way, she was lucky to have landed on the safe side of the fence.

And who knew this Nazi, anyway? He seemed unlike the other SS policing the ghetto. Since his arrival weeks before, he’d already exercised a measure of decency in the most obscure of instances: the collection of firewood.

Morty still wasn’t certain if the commandant’s offer of table scraps was a genuine act of kindness toward Jews collecting wood for his hearth or a sadistic brand of cruelty. Didn’t he know that the hungry masses inside the ghetto assaulted those Jews returning with food?

Nein, not just food; food was watery broth with a few potato peels thrown in. The commandant’s table hosted cuisine:
Linzertortes
and buttered noodles, apricot dumplings, all rich and decadent. Even the soldiers didn’t eat so well.

The Jews drew lots so that each Tuesday and Friday five prisoners got to leave the fortress and collect kindling. Once
selections were made, Morty always wondered which of them would stuff his or her face before returning at the end of the day.

Some, like Saul, avoided molestation by pretending to have eaten it all, packing his cheeks full and licking his fingers as he walked through the main gate. Only Morty knew that the rest of his meal was stuffed down the front of his pants or lined the inside of his felt cap . . .

“Morty, quick! The Hauptsturmführer’s coming!”

Morty whipped around to see the familiar officer in black moving in their direction. His aching muscles stiffened. “Hermann,” he growled under his breath.

“You! Why aren’t you working?” the captain shouted from a distance.

Morty stood silent, his back to the fence. He snatched off his cap and dropped his gaze.

“You’re supposed to be here on kitchen detail, Jew. Digging in the dirt for your food.” The captain shoved Yaakov and Leo aside to plow past them through the heavy snow. He came to a halt in front of Morty. “What are you doing this close to the fence?”

Before Morty could form an answer, the roar of the departing Mercedes rent the air.

“Spying on Herr Kommandant, eh, Jew?”

Morty took a fisted clout to the head, making him stagger.

“Do you know what we do to spies, you filth?” Hermann’s fist came down again, knocking Morty to his knees. “Shall we visit the
Kleine Festung
and find out?”

The Little Fortress. Morty’s battered senses rang with the threat. The small garrison outside Theresienstadt was rumored to be a place where the SS practiced various means of torture.

“Answer me!”

Morty ground his teeth as he felt his right arm twisted in its socket. He dared not meet Hermann’s gaze—his own anger was too great. “Herr Captain, I saw something . . . near the fence.”

He opened his other hand to reveal a sharp-edged metal object that gleamed in the dull sun’s rays.

“A Grand Cross?” Hermann released his arm and snatched up the shiny piece. “Who did you steal this from, Jew?”

“I found it.”

“Liar!”

Another blow knocked Morty backward. Dazed, he struggled to his knees. “Here, in the snow,” he said, masking his pain and fury. “Is it valuable, Herr Captain?” He swallowed bile. Of course he already knew the answer.

“This Grand Cross is from the First War.” The captain turned the medal in his gloved hand. “Less than twenty of these were ever awarded.” He looked at Morty derisively. “You soldiered in that war, didn’t you? You know that to earn such a decoration, a man must demonstrate remarkable courage in battle.”

Hermann’s taunt failed to hide his grudging admiration. “Too bad that man will never see this again.” He closed his fist around the Cross. “It will look splendid framed on the wall of my office. Below my picture of der Führer, eh?”

Morty schooled his expression despite Hermann’s malicious grin. Inside, he fought cold-blooded rage, letting it wash over him, beyond him, taking with it this latest assault on his pride.

“Now, get back to digging. All of you, or I’ll begin to think you don’t appreciate my generosity.” Hermann’s look promised retribution before he turned and tramped back to the one-man guardhouse at the entrance of the Pflanzengarten.

“How could you give the Hauptsturmführer your Grand Cross?” Yaakov hissed as soon as the captain was out of earshot. “You’re a fool, Morty.”

Morty glared at him. “I’m a fool who will live another day! You both heard what he said. I had to think of something—or face the inside of the Little Fortress.” He shivered against more than the bitter cold. “No one leaves there in one piece.”

He struggled to his feet, dusting the cold white powder from
his clothes. “Besides,” he said, trying to muster conviction, “what do I need with that medal now, anyway?”

“But you went to such lengths to keep them from taking it. When you told me where you hid it during the initial strip search . . .” Yaakov’s shoulders bunched. “It still makes me flinch.”

“This time my hide was at stake. And I believe God would agree it the more worthy cause.”

Leo leaned against his pick, wheezing. “But it seems such a . . . crime to just hand it over to them now, Morty. Especially to that . . . pig Hermann, of all people.”

“What has that medal ever done for me?” Morty demanded. “Bought me freedom, or at least given me my own bed to sleep in? Does it clothe me in something warmer than this summer jacket while I root around in the snow like an animal—for worms, rotten potatoes, anything I can shove down my throat to ease the craving in my belly?”

“What about your pride, Jew?” Yaakov waved a callused fist in the air. “What about your dignity as a soldier?”

Morty let out a rusty bark of laughter. “Jewish pride is a luxury we can no longer afford, my friends. As for a soldier’s dignity,” he went on, his voice turning bitter, “that no longer exists. These soldiers do not fight for Germany. They fight for Hitler, who fights for a place that doesn’t include us filthy Jews.”

Yaakov relaxed his stance. “Ja,” he admitted. “Hitler has taken my own Czechoslovakia and turned it into a war zone. Even our beloved city of Terezin.”

He stared at the fortress behind them, then spit at the frozen ground. “The Nazis have shamed her, turning her into a holding pen for Auschwitz.” He jabbed the head of his pick against the snow. “Resort, my foot.”

“Paradise . . .” Leo echoed in wheezing disgust.

“I’ll take over for a while, Leo. You rest.” Morty grabbed the other man’s pick by its handle. Teeth clenched, he drew on all
his strength to raise the axe over his head and let it fall again, chipping away a large chunk of unforgiving earth.

He understood their resentment; the Nazis had also deceived Morty into believing he was bound for a spa resort, a
Paradiesghetto
, in Czechoslovakia. “Hitler’s Gift”—a reward for affluent Jews the Reich considered prominent figures in Europe: an eclectic assortment of artists, musicians, writers, and like himself, a few highly decorated heroes from Germany’s first big war.

Any expectations had vanished once he arrived. Behind Theresienstadt’s stone walls lay squalid living conditions, disease, and death—like a festering boil the most expensive cosmetics could not hide. And food . . .

Morty actually feared thinking about it. That he never had enough to eat filled him with such despair, his tenuous hold on sanity often stretched to the point of pain.

Yet at night, in his dreams, he recounted in intimate detail his favorite dishes.
Wiener Schnitzel
, the lightly breaded veal cooked extra tender and served with red sauerkraut, onion
Kuchen
, palffy dumplings, glazed fruit bread, and of course plum-filled
Zwetschken Strudel
for dessert.

Food had been such an integral part of family life. It brought loved ones together in communion with God’s gifts, shared laughter mingled with the exchanges of news, while problems were unburdened onto the shoulders of those who, above all, understood.

Each morning as he awakened from the dreams, Morty felt a sense of comfort, of being
normal.
It sustained him with enough rational thought to face another day in the place Jews called “Hell’s Gate.”