Wildflowers of Terezin (10 page)

OFFICE OF THE GERMAN SHIPPING AGENT, KØBENHAVN

TUESDAY, 28 SEPTEMBER 1943

Duckwitz is not a well-known name, though it deserves to be.

It is the name of a good and true-hearted man.

—EMILIE ROI

A
nna, would you please look again for a telegram before you leave for the day?"

Georg Duckwitz checked his Swiss watch as he paused from his pacing. Only two minutes to five. If any special instructions were going to arrive from Berlin, they would have been here long before now.

"Still nothing, sir." His office manager looked in from the reception area. "Do you want me to—"

"That's all right." He tried to smile as if nothing were wrong. "Why don't you just go home for the day? You've been working hard."

She seemed to think about it for just a moment before nodding politely and retrieving her purse out of her desk by the door.

"Thank you, sir. I'll be on my way, then. And . . . I'm sure your message from Berlin will arrive tomorrow."

"I'm sure it will." Again Duckwitz did his best to appear casual, as if it was just another Tuesday evening, at the end of just another day. But he knew better. As soon as Anna had shut the door behind her he reached for a cigarette to calm his nerves. But his right hand shook as he flicked his lighter, and he managed to pace only to his window and back before snuffing his smoke in the ashtray on the corner of the desk.He jumped at the sound of the telephone and ran out to grab the call at Anna's desk. Perhaps—

"Office of the Shipping Agent," he said, clearing his throat."Duckwitz speaking."

"Georg!" His wife's voice sounded more distant than he would have thought, for just a cross-city connection.

"Oh!" He sighed. Without a telegram and without a phone call to the contrary, now his decision loomed that much closer. He stared up at the portrait of Adolph Hitler on the wall above the reception desk, and he had to force himself to believe that
der Führer
would not now be listening in, or watching. Hopefully, neither would anyone else—including his wife.

"Georg? You sound disappointed it was me."

"Nein,
of course not. I was just expecting . . . ah, well. I was hoping for a call from Berlin."

"I see. You're always expecting a call from Berlin."

Not like this one,
he thought as his wife went on.

"So what happened to Anna? Was she not working today?"

"I told her to go home early."

"On a Tuesday? Well, that's all very nice of you, but how about letting the shipping agent come home, for a change? Tell him his wife is cooking his favorite tonight for his birthday."

That kind of talk was almost enough to soothe his jangled nerves. Almost.

"
Schnitzel und spätzle?"
he asked, his mouth watering at the thought of how his wife used to prepare a tasty breaded pork tenderloin. But with all the rationing, how long had it been since she'd been able to prepare his
lieblingsessen?
He would not ask where she had been able to find such a delicacy.And spätzle! These Danes had nothing like it—doughy noodles cooked in boiling bouillon. He could almost taste it now.

"Of course, schnitzel und spätzle, silly. But I'm not going to bring it to the office, or I'd probably be robbed on the street.You'll have to come home if you want some. Dinner, I mean! You are coming home soon, aren't you?"

"
Ja, of course. Very soon." He bit his lip and glanced at his watch once again, calculating how quickly he could complete his errand—if he was to carry it out. "But Liesl, I have to—"

"What? You give me one good reason not to throw this schnitzel out the back window for the local cats to carry off."

"No, please. It's an important meeting I need to attend first.It won't take long at all. I should be home by . . . perhaps seven o'clock at the latest."

"Seven." His wife groaned on the other end of the phone."You're always working late, these days. Can't it wait until tomorrow?"

"I'm sorry,
schatzi,
just not this time."

He tried to apologize once more, but still his vague excuses didn't seem to appease his wife. He didn't blame her. But as he hung up he couldn't help staring at the portrait of Hitler, and his forehead throbbed with pain.

Am I sure about this?
he asked himself, wondering what would happen if he simply went home to his wife to enjoy a good meal, well-deserved. What would happen if he simply remembered his civil service oath? Herr Hitler's eyes seemed to follow him around the office, as did the words:

"I swear I shall be loyal and obedient to Adolf Hitler, the Führer of the German Reich and people, respect the laws, and fulfill my official duties conscientiously, so help me God."

So help me . . .
Back at his desk his heart pounded in his chest as he fingered the confidential report from Werner Best and pulled on an overcoat from the coat tree. Of all people, Best must never know. The problem was, Duckwitz had already told his wife too much. What if she was questioned?

Nein.
It was too late and he knew what he had to do, no matter the cost. He felt his face flush as he thought of what would happen if he did nothing.

Nein!
So he snapped off his desk lamp, breaking the little knob in the process. And he hesitated for only a moment, the broken knob in his hand, before tossing it aside and heading for the door.

And I cannot tell her,
he reminded himself.
Not ever.

By that time he also decided it best to leave behind his documents, his proof of what was to come. They would have to take his word for it. But he couldn't help rehearsing what he would say as he hurried out of his office and around the corner to catch the streetcar that would take him as close as he could get to 22
Rømersgade.
He hopped on and found a seat near the back, out of the way.

If he didn't meet anyone's eyes, and if he didn't open his mouth, he thought perhaps he might be mistaken for a businessman or a banker on his way home after another day at the office. Perhaps. He hunched behind yesterday's copy of the
Times,
scanning the bland headlines that revealed little truth, not reading a word and doing all that he could to slow the racing of his heart. But he could not. An older woman looked at him curiously from across the aisle as he produced a monogrammed handkerchief and mopped his forehead. Yes, it was a bit warm in the streetcar, was it not? She would not know what "GFD" stood for, even if she could make out the initials.

"Oh, here!" Duckwitz didn't mean to call out, and he needn't have worried as the distracted conductor brought their coach to a jerky stop. Duckwitz wasted no more time but pushed outside and gulped the cool evening air to calm himself down. It didn't work. He checked his watch and hurried toward the Labour Library building where he was certain his contact would be talking politics.

Hans Hedtoft, a leading member of the powerful Social Democrat party, would still be here, huddled with other Danish politicians in one of the meeting rooms surrounding the Labour Library. Yes, even at this hour. Because ever since the Danish government had resigned in protest last month, Hedtoft practically lived in the smoky huddles of emergency meetings and crisis councils. So Duckwitz pushed through an outer lobby as if he belonged there. Only now he ran the risk of someone recognizing him. Never mind.

"May I help you, sir?" A young woman, perhaps a receptionist of some kind, intercepted him as he approached one of the closed meeting room doors. She obviously didn't know who he was, which was just as well.

"Yes, actually, you may. I assume Herr Hedtoft is in that meeting." He made his best guess and nodded toward the nearest closed door. "Will you please inform him I'll be waiting for him over there?"

He pointed toward a far corner where he hoped they might attract a minimum of attention.

"Er . . . yes, of course, sir. Whom shall I say will be waiting?"

But Duckwitz had already set off to find a discreet place to sit in the far corner of the library, beyond several meeting tables and on the other side of a bank of shelves. He pulled up pair of small armchairs and told himself over and over to calm down. And he waited. Two minutes later the Secretary of the Social Democrats stood over him with a puzzled frown.

"They said you wanted to see me, Georg?"

"Sit down, please." Duckwitz tried to contain himself, though he still felt as if he was hyperventilating. Hedtoft must have noticed.

"You look pale." Hedtoft looked closer as he slipped into the other seat. "Is everything all right?"

"Not exactly." He shook his head but managed to keep his voice down. Still, he could not look the other man in the eyes. Instead he stared off into the darkening window, and he gripped his hands to keep them from trembling. Surely Hans Hedtoft would be able to tell.

"You're not well. Here, perhaps something to drink?"