Wildflowers of Terezin (34 page)

"You're doing
what?"
Pastor Viggo nearly chewed off the end of his cigar as he paced alongside a line of garbage cans behind the church while Steffen explained about his possible leave of absence. "This is most unusual. Highly unusual."

"I know it is." Steffen followed his mentor through the smoke screen, holding his breath as he did. "But I feel compelled."

"You
feel
compelled?" Pastor Viggo interrupted as he wheeled around to face Steffen. When the older man looked like this, it reminded Steffen of Winston Churchill, the British bulldog. "You would make this big of a decision based on
feelings?"

"No, that's not what I meant to say. It's just a figure of speech. I am compelled, and it really has nothing to do with feelings. I simply must do this."

Pastor Viggo didn't take his eyes off Steffen, just ripped the cigar stub out of his mouth and threw it to the alley pavement.A moment later he realized what he'd done, however, and retrieved what was left of the smoldering stogie.

"In any case, your church needs you above all else." Viggo dusted off his treasure. "I can't believe you would set all that aside."

"It would only be temporary. Perhaps you wouldn't mind filling the pulpit for a couple of weeks in my absence, if it came to that. And if the bishop approves, that is."

Viggo only shook his head.

"That's not the point. Of course he would approve. But for a pastor to get involved with prison camp inspections—I just don't think it's proper."

"You're the one who taught me about
hupakouo,
remember? I obey."

"All very good to throw a little Greek into the equation. But I would ask whom you're obeying? God or your own desires?"

This was getting a bit more personal than Steffen had anticipated. But he had an answer for that, no matter how impertinent it might sound.

"You think I would actually want to go to a dirty German prison camp instead of staying here in my safe church? That I would want to take a leave of absence when it might endanger my career or my future? How can you call that my own desires?"

"It's the Jewish girl, then, isn't it?"

Steffen flinched as the older man let the words sink in for an awkward moment. Finally Steffen had to say something in his own defense.

"I don't know if it is or not." That was as honest as it got, even with himself. "All I know is that everything is all jumbled up right now. My ministry, my faith, my anger at what's going on around me, my sense of justice—and I suppose yes, my attraction to Hanne."

Viggo nodded at this, even allowing a slight smile.

"There's the first honest words I've heard from you. Good.So now I know how to pray—that you'll start to sort things out." He blew a large puff of cigar smoke into the air above their heads. "Instead of seeing everything through a dark gray cloud."

"Then you do approve, after all."

"No, you don't understand, Steffen. There's a big difference between speaking your mind from the pulpit and stepping out beyond the walls of this place."

He motioned to the building they both knew and loved.Steffen knew every bit of it, from the altar and its lovely ship model hanging from the soaring ceiling, to the catacombs and hallways below. This they shared.

"You can preach all you want from our pulpit up there," said Pastor Viggo, "and you know the kinds of things the Germans won't like. But what's the worst thing that can happen? They complain; you apologize. Nothing more."

Steffen thought it was probably a good thing he hadn't told Pastor Viggo about his visit to Vestre Prison, or how Wolfschmidt had threatened Hanne. Perhaps later.

"But once you leave this place behind and step out there, Steffen, you're stepping into their world. Are you sure that's what you want to do?"

"You talk as if I'm leaving the ministry. I remain a pastor.That doesn't change. It's just a leave of absence."

"So you say. When would it start?"

"I don't know, yet. Madsen at the Red Cross office is already working on the details for a visit to the camp. It may happen tomorrow, or it may not happen for months. But when it happens, I intend to go along."

"For how long? Days? Weeks? Months?"

"I, I don't know." Steffen looked away. Too many questions.He couldn't stand Viggo's piercing, blue-eyed interrogation any longer. "Perhaps not that long."

"Fine. You do what you think is right. As I told you, I will pray."

And with that the older man turned and shuffled to the rear entry, replacing what was left of his cigar in a vest pocket.He seemed slower than usual, as if his legs had stiffened or the conversation itself had aged him. As Steffen watched him go, though, he wished for—what? A blessing? Perhaps.

"I'd hoped you would support me in this decision." He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. Viggo halted and steadied himself with an arm against the doorjamb, and glanced over his shoulder.

"My dear Steffen, of course I support you. The question is, are you making a huge mistake which you will later regret? I think perhaps yes."

And with that he closed the back door behind him, leaving Steffen to stand alone in the remnants of Viggo's advice— and his cigar smoke. Steffen wasn't entirely sure which one now made his eyes water, but a cold breeze had picked up and now blew a swirling couple of papers down the alley. Steffen stopped them with his shoe and looked down.

One appeared to be yet another crudely worded warning from the German authorities, the likes of which had littered city streets for the past four years. Like all the others, this one warned of curfews and other security measures "for the safety of the residents of greater København." The usual trash.

The other, however, was a fragment of an obviously homeprinted newspaper,
Den Frie Danske. The Free Dane.
He folded it carefully to read later. And after another moment of staring up at the Sankt Stefan's cross he shoved his fists into the pockets of his trousers and followed the old man inside.

His decision had been made.

OFFICE OF THE DANISH RED CROSS, KØBENHAVN

THURSDAY MORNING, 28 OKTOBER 1943

I have found the paradox, that if you love until it hurts,

there can be no more hurt, only more love.

—MOTHER TERESA

S
teffen doodled on his desk calendar with a pencil stub as he waited for Herr Madsen to answer the phone, or perhaps Marie at the front desk. Four, five, six rings: how many days had it been since the man had said they'd be back in touch with him "shortly"? It seemed some people had different definitions of the word.

"Come on," he mumbled, "answer the phone."

Finally Marie answered, Steffen was connected to Herr Madsen, and they exchanged the usual polite greetings. But Steffen didn't bother to bring up the dreary fall weather, or how dark it was getting so early in the evenings, or any of the small talk one would normally endure. He really only wanted to know one thing.

"So what do we hear about Theresienstadt, Herr Madsen?"

Herr Madsen sighed audibly. "As I told you last week, still nothing yet. These things take time."

"Yes, but our people have been gone for several weeks now.Some of them might be needing medical attention. We need to make sure they're getting mail. For all we know, they could be starving to death."

"No one is starving to death, Pastor. Of that I assure you."

"How can you assure me? All we know is what the Germans deign to tell us."

"More than that. We've just received a package full of postcards indicating that they've been received well at Theresienstadt, and that all four hundred and sixty-six have made it safely. They say they will accept mail to and from Danmark."

"Wait a minute." Steffen nearly pulled the telephone out of the wall in his pastor's study. "Postcards? From whom? And to whom?"

"I have no idea of the specifics, Pastor. All I know is that we've received the correspondence, and that it's being processed as quickly as possible. Meanwhile, although we have not yet received medical reports, we're reasonably certain everyone is all right, so far."

"Perhaps they are." Steffen did his best to keep his voice level. "But isn't that what we need to find out for ourselves?"

Don't push,
Steffen reminded himself, biting his pencil.
Don't put him on the defensive.

"Look, Pastor, they have already agreed to consider our request for an on-site inspection, and apparently it's going through the usual channels in Berlin. That could take awhile."

"How long?"

"Perhaps a few days, perhaps a few weeks. You'll be the first to know, I promise."

Steffen didn't answer right away.

"Are you still there?" asked Herr Madsen.

"Still here. Just wondering what else I can do."

"We're doing all we can, as you know. But in the meantime, if you want to make yourself useful, perhaps you can help us put together a few packages."

"Packages? Of?"

"Medical supplies, foodstuffs, chewing gum, reading material—anything that would be of use to the people there. We have some of the supplies on hand, but if you could assemble donations from your parish, that would be helpful as well."

"I'll gather a few things and drop them by your office this afternoon," he promised. "Thank you."

Twenty minutes later Steffen knocked at the locked door of the Ibsen Boghandel, pressing his face to the glass. Inside the lights were off, though it was only three in the afternoon.

Odd.

He knocked again, louder this time, until he caught a movement in the back.

"Henning!" He tried to shout through the glass. "Open up.It's me."

He had to pound just a little more to prove to his brother that he wasn't going away. And Henning did not look pleased to open up the door, even a crack.

"What are you doing here?" Henning asked as Steffen slipped by him. His voice sounded hoarse and distant.

"That's not the question. The question is, why in the world are you closed on a Thursday afternoon?"

His voice trailed off as his eyes adjusted to the dim light and he finally made out his brother's bruises. A dark ring framed Henning's sunken left eye, while his right eye squinted through a puffy, swollen eyelid. An angry gash across his cheek looked even more painful. Henning held up a hand after he closed and locked the door behind them.

"Don't say it, all right?" When he took a deep breath, it rattled in his chest. "I have a mirror. I know how bad I look."

"What happened to you?"

Henning paused, as if he was debating whether to answer.

"Let's just say we ran into a little trouble last night."

"That looks like more than just a little trouble. Your face looks like it's been through a sausage grinder."

"Thank you. What a lovely way to describe it.
Morsomt."

"Of all the ways to describe your face right now, the word
lovely
does not come to mind."

"Anything else?" Henning crossed his arms now and waited.

"Actually, I did come to ask you something." Steffen decided to change the subject for now. "I'm putting together some packages for the Red Cross, and we'd like to include a few books for the people in Theresienstadt. We assume they don't have anything in Danish to read. Do you have any you'd like to donate? Damaged goods, perhaps? Anything would help."

"For the Red Cross, eh? Why didn't you say so? You going to deliver them personally?"

Henning rummaged around behind the counter for a minute, pulling out several books with covers that had been torn partly off, then several more. A few novels, even a thick stack of popular news and gossip magazines,
Billed Bladet
(
The Illustrated Magazine)
and
Alt for Damerne
(
Everything for Women).
He piled everything into a cardboard box and shoved it across the counter, then looked up at his older brother.

"There you go. But I wasn't serious. Please don't tell me you're actually thinking you can go to the camp by yourself.Are you?"

"Thanks." Steffen pulled the box across the counter.

But Henning reached over and held on to a corner of the box, not releasing his brother just yet.

"You didn't answer me."

Steffen sighed before explaining about the leave of absence and his new connection with the Red Cross, while Henning's expression clouded over, darker and darker.

"Well?" asked Steffen. "Don't just stare at me like that.What do you think?"

"I think you have no business getting involved this way.The Red Cross? Since when did pastors join the Red Cross? I thought you had sermons to preach."

"Again you confuse me. Once I was the big brother who was too cautious. The one you said was too scared to get involved and do the right thing. Remember?"

"This is different. You probably don't want to hear this, but there's a new Gestapo sturmbannführer in town, and word is that he's even tougher than Wolfschmidt."

Steffen gulped. Worse than Wolfschmidt? He pushed back the thought.

"It doesn't matter. For once in my life, I think I am doing the right thing."

Now Henning paced behind the counter, and it was a good thing the sign on the doorway read "lukket." Closed.

"In fact," Steffen continued, "ever since the rescues, I know I've been doing the right thing. I think I—"

"Would you stop it?" Henning nearly shouted. "Just because you helped a few Jews escape to Sweden, doesn't mean you're a card-carrying member of the Underground."

"I didn't help them all escape, now, did I?"

"Oh, so now you're going to act all guilty. That's what it is. One escape goes wrong, and now you think you have to do penance to make up for it. That's a stupid idea, if you ask me."

Steffen studied his brother, wondering.

"I can't figure you out," he finally told Henning. "No matter what I do, it's not right. In your eyes I can't win."

"Well, I'm sorry if you feel that way. So let me just say I'm proud of my big brother for finally stepping out and putting his high ideals into practice. Bully for you. But that's as far as it goes, okay?"