Wildflowers of Terezin (36 page)

Did his congregation really believe his words sounded that dangerous? That part actually scared him the most, since he wasn't always sure what prompted their concern. But he cared little for his own safety in those early days of 1944 and thought much less about it than he had in what he considered his "previous life." Only for the safety of Hanne.

So on one particularly chilly Sunday night in early February, he lay awake once more thinking of what might be happening to her at Theresienstadt, or how soon they might receive word of the visit. It had been months since he'd first spoken to Poul Madsen, after all! And this was the way he spent most of his nights, if not all. His weekly collection sat in an envelope next to his bed, carefully counted and, like most weeks, fairly substantial. In the morning he would deliver it to the Red Cross office on
Blegdamsgade Street,
and he would ask again if there was any news. He was afraid he was becoming quite the pest.

Meanwhile his mind kept circling back to ugly imaginings of Jewish families huddled in dark corners, pursued by Nazis, while he himself traipsed on the fragile ice between waking and dreaming. And whether awake or dreaming he saw her face in the middle of the ragged crowd, blue and drawn and shivering, her hazel eyes pleading for help while he remained trapped in his ornate, carved pulpit, hurling rocks at the guards but still completely unable to help.

He sat up and snapped on his bedside lamp, heart thumping, to check the time.

Three a.m., and his pillow was soaked with the outpouring of his nightmare.

Certain he could not sleep now, he crawled out of bed and pulled on a sweater, then his faded brown house robe and slippers, and found his way to the little desk in the opposite corner of his bedroom. Still he shivered. And he stared at the piece of paper he'd left there earlier that day, his thoughts unfinished.

Actually the hardest part of his days was not the church work or the sermons, the visitations or offering communion or the baptisms. It was not collecting money or books or other supplies for the care packages, or volunteering at the Red Cross office every other day, putting together packages and preparing them for delivery. The hardest part was not hearing all the depressing war news, which was all around but which Steffen avoided as much as possible.

No. The hardest part came every evening, when Steffen sat at his little desk and pulled out pen and paper to write Hanne a few lines in the letter he would send every week.He knew the German censors would probably sift through every word before passing the note along to its intended destination, if they could be bothered even to do that much. So he chose his words carefully, and often—like tonight, like sleep—those words simply would not come. Chin in hand, he stared at what he had written earlier that evening, and the words danced before his eyes in the tiny pool of pale light from his desk lamp.

Though it's still only February, this will be the longest winter I've ever lived through, by far. But you certainly don't want to hear me complaining about the gloomy weather. Shall I complain of something else? As of today we are still waiting for word on whether our delegation will be granted permission to visit. Once more Herr Madsen told me "Perhaps next week." If I hear that again, I'm going to scream. But I read and re-read your letters, grateful for your encouragement.

There his partially written letter left off, and he wondered anew if the German censors would have a problem with him mentioning the delegation and their so-far unsuccessful efforts to visit Theresienstadt. Perhaps not. Did it matter?

"Let them take it out, if they want."

But since he still could not think of anything else to add, he simply added his "warmest greetings" and signed his name before folding it up and sealing the envelope for tomorrow's package.

And now he could sleep. Perhaps.

On the way to the Red Cross office the next morning, Steffen stopped by the back door of his brother's bookstore, careful to look both ways before picking up the box that would be left on the back step.

"Thanks again, my
bror,"
he said to the back door, and he blew off a dusting of powdery snow as he hunched his shoulders against the cold and hurried the box of cast-off and damaged books back down the alley. Perhaps by now they might have word from the German authorities about their request to visit Theresienstadt. And if not, they would keep sending package after package, letter after letter, request after request. If nothing else, the Germans would know that they were not giving up on these people.

He wondered again if there really might not be some way to mail himself in one of the packages, and that would give the person on the other end quite a fright, would it not? He smiled weakly as he walked down Nørrebrogade, keeping his eyes on the sidewalk to keep from slipping on a patch of ice.He didn't bother this time to check which books his brother had donated, but he was sure they would be welcomed. A travel book, perhaps, or a lighthearted novel.

He wondered if she liked the poetry.

Hanne did her best to escape the cold by burrowing deeper underneath her blanket, curled up on her hard bunk in the women's unheated bunkhouse. If there had been more tears, she might have cried them. And if there had been other books, she might have read them. But the Jewish theology books in German didn't interest her. Hardly anything did.So once again she read through the book of poetry by Kaj Munk. Judging by the portions underlined in pencil, it had apparently been a favorite of Steffen's. She kept it down low, in case anyone else should notice, but it also served as a place to keep the letters she'd received from him, courtesy of the Red Cross.

The weather was growing even colder, he told her, and she nodded.

Same here, Steffen.

A sweetness shone through even his most cautious words—and she wasn't sure how much of the caution came from anticipating the German censors who would read the letter, or . . . just caution. Still, "I miss you" in any language helped keep her warm on those awful, dark nights, when she tried to block out the groans around her as she read his letters over and over, along with his poetry.

When he mentioned once in his December letter about preparing for the Christmas season, and the coming of the Messiah, she wondered more about what kind of faith would make a man risk his own life for hers, or if it was something else. She would reply in the morning, perhaps in between patients, but in the meantime she composed a note in her head.

Dear Steffen,
she began in her mind. Or perhaps,
Dearest Steffen.
Better.

I read your latest letter four, no five times tonight, and it gave me hope that there is someone waiting for me, after all this is over and I am released. But there is one thing I was hoping you would explain, because I have thought about it every day since I was captured.

Your kiss.

Did it mean what I thought it to mean, or did it mean something else? Did you kiss me as you would a sister, or perhaps in a more romantic context?