Wildflowers of Terezin (24 page)

"Please!" cried the older woman, but now they sped through empty lanes and back roads on their way back to the coast, avoiding, of course, the place where they had encountered the German roadblock.

"Are you sure we should have done this?" wondered Hanne, looking over at their driver. "Now they know our names."

He almost smiled, but kept his eyes on the road.

"Maybe so. But what did we do? If they go to the trouble to look us up, we just explain how easy it is to get lost out here."

Hanne shook her head as she looked back to check on their passengers. And she wondered about the man who now drove six more Jews to safety, risking his own life in the process.Why? Even just a few days ago, she would never have expected this of him. Serious? Yes. Conservative? Definitely.But something else now drew her to him—until he broke into her thoughts like a tour guide.

"Next stop, Tårbæk," he announced. They passed the turnoff to the Tårbæk beach that she remembered from earlier day trips here with friends from school. "Where you'll board your luxurious cruise ship for your final destination, the beautiful city of Malmö, Sweden, home of—"

Hanne interrupted him with a hand on his arm.

"Pastor, I think they're going to Landskrona."

"As I said, the beautiful city of Landskrona. Home of . . .what is it the home of?"

"These days" she said, "it's the home of a lot more Danish Jews."

He looked at her out of the corner of his eye and smiled as they pulled up behind a small waterfront warehouse. In the ambulance's shielded headlights, it appeared weathered and rust-streaked. As if on cue, a shadowy figure in a dark coat and tall rubber boots stepped out from behind the shelter of the building and approached as Steffen rolled down the window.

"Six," said Steffen, without introduction, "as you agreed with my brother?"

He pulled a bulging envelope out of his shirt pocket and extended it to the man.

"Tak," said the man—a brief thank-you that sounded almost like a grunt. And without another word he disappeared the way he'd come as a garage door swung open from the inside, just wide enough for them to pass through. Once inside Steffen cut the engine and the door closed behind them, like the jaws of a great fish.

"Here we are," Steffen told them as someone pulled open the ambulance's back doors. "May God bless you, and . . .
shalom."

According to plan, their passengers left the ambulance at this transfer point. They all reached out a hand with a whisper of thanks, and Hanne gave the mother a hug. But moments later they were all gone, leaving Hanne and Steffen alone and waiting for the warehouse doors to reopen.

Hanne listened to soft voices outside, perhaps the voice of the fisherman who had taken their money, and the distant but distinct wheeze and pop of a fishing boat's engine. The smell of salted fish drifted in through the ambulance window.Steffen broke the silence.

"A little like being left inside a jar of pickled herring, eh? Makes me ill."

She couldn't help smiling, even if he couldn't see her.

"Really? I sort of like the smell. I'm just not used to all this, this . . . you know, secret agent kind of thing. But, Pastor—"

"Just Steffen. Please. If you risk your life with someone, at least you ought to be on a first- name basis, don't you think?"

"Well, yes, but I just wanted to apologize for speaking so harshly back there. For calling you an idiot."

"Oh, that's right." He sounded surprised, as if he'd forgotten."You did, didn't you? Well, if it makes you feel any better, I know you didn't mean it. Or did you?"

They both laughed at that, as Hanne explained herself.

"It's just that my father would never let me use that word, when I was a little girl. I tried it once, when I was six. I think I was playing outside. My
Far
overheard and gave me quite a spanking, let me tell you."

"Sounds like a traumatic memory."

"You know what I mean. So tonight I honestly almost choked on the word, but I thought perhaps it might help convince the Germans."

He chuckled. "I think you did a very adequate job of convincing them, all right. You were wonderful, in fact. You nearly had me convinced."

"Well, as I said, I am sorry about that."

"No, you're not. You enjoyed it."

They laughed again, leaning their faces together, until he added another question.

"But . . . your father? You've never mentioned him before."

"Oh, I . . . ah—"

She paused, wishing she hadn't mentioned him at all.

"I didn't mean to be nosey," said Steffen, but she shook her head.

"No, it's not that. You're not being nosey at all.
Far
was—is an engineer. His company sent him to work on a bridge project in Holland before the war."

"Holland?" Steffen sounded alarmed, as well he should have.

"We begged him not to go, of course, for obvious reasons.You know. But he was always convinced nothing could happen to him. And now we haven't heard from him in over three years."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Perhaps . . ."

Thankfully he didn't finish the sentence with a platitude she'd long ago rejected. But even in her weaker moments, did she really not hold some glimmer of hope that she might see her father again?

"Actually, I keep expecting him to show up on my doorstep, acting as if nothing had ever happened and apologizing for making us worry. But I know . . ."

She did her best to mask her voice with lighthearted banter, knowing very well that Steffen wasn't fooled. When she looked over, a flicker of light from outside lit up his sad face as he stared out his window into the dark warehouse.

"Well, I pray that he does." Finally he straightened in his seat. "And I'm sure your father would be proud of his daughter today. Just as I am. Six more to safety. How many left?"

She didn't even want to guess. But among them would be Aron Overgaard, which reminded her that she had not explained that part of her life to Steffen, either. Not that she owed him any explanation. Or even if she tried, she might not be able to make sense of it all anymore.

So she leaned out her window, took a deep breath of briny air, and waited.

SANKT STEFAN'S KIRKE, KØBENHAVN

SUNDAY MORNING, 10 OCTOBER 1943

Every man's life is a fairy tale written by God's fingers.

—HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

A
word, Pastor?"

Pastor Viggo stood in the shadows of the narthex, obviously waiting for Steffen to step back inside after greeting everyone as they filed out from that morning's service. Steffen paused as his eyes adjusted once again to the shadows. But the elderly pastor made no move, so Steffen joined him. He couldn't help but feel a little spooked, the same way as when a professor had called him to his desk to reprimand him for a failed test or a missed assignment.

"Something wrong?" asked Steffen, his mind racing. Still he could think of nothing that might have upset of the genial older pastor.

Viggo looked him over closely, not allowing him enough personal space to breathe well, and Steffen couldn't help but back up several inches.

"Not yet," Viggo told him, his voice steady and low. "But I think there's about to be."

"I don't understand." Steffen shook his head. "Did I miss something in my sermon? Something I could have explained better? You heard the whole thing, didn't you?"

From Luke chapter seven, beginning at the eleventh verse.

Og Gud har besøgt sit folk.

And God has visited His people.

Perhaps he'd turned a phrase incorrectly, or Pastor Viggo didn't like the way he'd compared the people in the crowd— the ones who had witnessed Jesus raising the dead young boy to life—to the Danish people witnessing new life in their streets and towns, in the narrow alleys of København and the fishing villages that dotted their coast. Surely, Steffen had told them, God was visiting His people in a new way.

"I heard every word, Steffen. It was by far the best you've ever preached. Even the joke about the fisherman. In fact, I've never seen you speak like this. Something's gotten into you."

"Oh." Steffen breathed a little more easily. "I'm glad you think so. But then . . . what is the problem? Not with the sermon?"

"Yes, that's exactly the problem. Look . . ." Now the elder pastor turned, his arms crossed. Perhaps he needed his cigar to settle down a bit, but Steffen had seldom seen him this agitated. Finally he turned back to Steffen, and tears rimmed his eyes.

"When you were assigned to this parish, Steffen, I had a difficult time biting my tongue at first. In fact, I probably should have attended somewhere else in my retirement, just to stay out of your way."

"No. I have always valued your wisdom. I have never felt as if you've interfered. Whose idea was it to keep your office here, even when the bishop wasn't so enthusiastic?"

Pastor Viggo gave him a little smile.

"You're right about that."

"And if someone comes to you with a problem or a suggestion, the way they might have done when you were in the pulpit, you always turn them straight over to me, don't you?"

Again a little smile from the older pastor.

"Most of the time. Yes."

"And you always sit way in the back, as if you don't want people to notice."

"Exactly." Now he turned serious once more. "And that's just it. Listen, I know what you've been doing these past several days. And I have to say that personally I admire you for it.I never expected it of you, but I admire what you're doing."

This time Steffen wasn't sure how to answer, or how to acknowledge. So he just nodded as Viggo went on—this time wagging a finger at Steffen.

"But when I sit in the back, I see things you don't. There was a Gestapo man here today, trying to blend in. He was watching you, Steffen, and I don't think he liked what he heard."

"What? You're mistaken. I usually see everyone."

"Obviously not everyone."

"But how would you know he's Gestapo? Did you ask him?"

By this time they were getting into things Pastor Viggo obviously was not comfortable sharing. He pulled at his collar and mopped his shiny forehead with a handkerchief.

"This is where it gets complicated, Steffen."

"Complicated?" Steffen tried to keep his voice from rising an octave as Viggo raised his hand to settle him down. "But what are you saying?"

"I didn't think it made any difference. Margrethe's been here a long time, you know. Since before I even came to this parish. Her family's always attended. I went to school with her brothers."

"Now you've really lost me. What does Margrethe have to do with anything?"

"All right." Viggo's shoulders slumped. "A week before they tried to round up the Jews, I noticed Margrethe speaking with a German officer out in the alley. They didn't see me, and at the time I didn't fault her for it."

"We've all been stopped at one time or another."

"Exactly. And that still might be the case. I'm not accusing her of collaboration, you understand. But the man she was speaking to was the same one who slipped into the back of the church this morning, listening."

"You're sure of that?"

He frowned at Steffen in a way that required no answer.Of course he was sure.

"Then . . ." Steffen's throat suddenly felt dry, even more than when he'd been driving the ambulance, nearly every day this past week. "What are you suggesting?"

"I'm suggesting that you need to be much more careful of what you say in public, here in the church office, and especially in the pulpit. Come on, son. Was it really so hard to miss your meaning, this morning? Men have been shot for less. And how long do you think it will take them to put together the pieces? Pastor Steffen who preaches against the German occupiers. Pastor Steffen who drives his brother's ambulance, rescuing Jews. Pastor Steffen, who spends nearly all his free time with a Jewish nurse from Bispebjerg."

"Wait a minute." Steffen held his forehead in his hand."How do you know all this?"

"I keep my eyes open." Viggo shrugged. "I promised God that as long as he kept me here, I would keep an eye open for you."

Steffen felt his cheeks flush— mainly in knowing that Pastor Viggo could see so many of these things so plainly.And if Viggo could see, who else could?

"I don't want to cause you any trouble," mumbled Steffen.

"Trouble? Ha. Not me. You just worry a little more about yourself. Because you know who else was here this morning?"

This time Steffen was ready for anything. Perhaps King Christian had dropped by on his horse, unannounced. And Steffen had been so taken up in his own preaching, he'd missed it all. Pastor Viggo looked at him with a mixture of amazement and amusement.

"You really don't know? Well, that proves how oblivious you were today. I used to be like that on a good Sunday, when my head was full of my preaching. Fortunately I'm not that way anymore."

He chuckled again, but Steffen couldn't stand it.

"All very good, but who are we talking about?"

"Oh, you mean this morning. Yes, of course. The young lady friend? Dark eyes? Dark hair? Very striking? Works at Bispebjerg, I believe?"

Steffen groaned and closed his eyes. He must have looked toward the back row a hundred times in the course of the morning and never noticed. But then, as Viggo had said, perhaps his head
was
a bit full of his preaching.

"How long was she here?" he finally whispered. And when he opened his eyes, Viggo was smiling at him all over again.

"Nearly the entire service. She slipped in about fifteen minutes late, left about five minutes early. She has an eye for you. And you made her cry, by the way. Now whether that's good or bad, I'm not sure, but—"

"I had no idea." Steffen couldn't stop shaking his head now.Hanne? Here at Sankt Stefan's? "I had no idea."

"Obviously not. But maybe that's a good thing. I have a feeling you might have embarrassed her, if you had noticed her. She looked to me as if she wanted to remain anonymous."

Then it occurred to Steffen, and he gripped Viggo's shoulders in his hands.

"The Gestapo man! Do you think—?"

"Oh, he saw her, all right. That's what caught my eye in the first place. He saw her come in, and he kept track of her the entire time. Because as soon as she slipped out the back—and this was before the end of the service—he went right after her."

"I have to go tell her." Steffen broke away and started for the door, only not before Viggo caught him by the arm.

"Let me tell you something, Steffen. I never give you advice unless you ask for it. But this time I must. I don't know what your Jewish friend has done to hide her identity. I can only guess. But whatever she's done, the Gestapo is still watching her. And now they're making the connection between you and her. So you have to be careful about what you say, and about what you do. And don't forget about Margrethe."

Steffen nodded, understanding. But that didn't change what he would need to do next.

"And if this girl is your friend," Viggo continued, "you'd better tell her to get out of the country while she still can. I will be praying every day for both of you. Only you have to be much more careful, do you understand? Careful like you've never been before."