Wildflowers of Terezin (37 page)

"Romantic context?" She made a mental note not to use that phrase. Far too clinical. But still she had to ask.

Because if you have feelings for me, then I would like to inform you that I, too—

"Lights out!" roared a gendarme from the floor below as he slammed doors and stomped about. That would be his five- second warning before all lights in the women's barracks were abruptly cut for the evening. A few of the other women scurried for their bunks. But Hanne didn't mind; she snuggled a little deeper into her threadbare blanket, holding her book, her letters, and her hopes close to her chest.

She would figure out the rest of the letter in the morning, if she even dared broach the subject. Perhaps she might use more discreet language. But she would sign it—

Love, Hanne.

And so Steffen marked off the days—slowly, daily, one at a time, but with a distinct red pencil that eventually formed a crisscross fence across the face of his calendar and the days of his life since he had last seen Hanne. December into January and February into March. Days and then weeks, weeks and then months. Winter and ice into early spring and thaw, and he told Hanne about everything he could think of in his letters, week after week.

I hope you don't tire of all the details,
he wrote one day in early March.
It's just that I've grown so accustomed to telling you everything. It wouldn't seem right if I didn't. Of course, it would be better if I could tell you in person. Much better.

In the first several letters he'd signed off with the usual "With Friendly Greetings," but that had changed to "Warm Greetings" and finally just "Love, Steffen."

Because . . . did she see?

As a joke, he even once tried signing his name "Rabbi Petersen," which she thought was funny. At the same time, he struggled with the emotions that escaped his fountain pen, emotions whose course he could not quite predict, like an explorer headed down an uncharted stream. In Danmark, however, there were no uncharted streams. And just like anywhere else, they flowed inevitably and predictably to the sea.

So he unfolded his struggle on paper, and told her of his own Jewish Messiah, as gently as he knew how, so as not to offend. She wrote back with more questions, with what appeared to be genuine interest.

How is it that the Messiah didn't bring peace, if he came as you said?
she asked.
Would a Jewish person still be Jewish, if she accepted your view of the Messiah? And Lutherans really don't believe in three gods, do they?

He had to chuckle when he read that last question. He would have a good answer for her. At the same time, the German censors did not seem to mind such a romantic, theological exchange, since they left each word intact for them both to read.

But no matter how much Steffen wrote to Hanne, and no matter how much she wrote back, the correspondence only fueled his growing desire to see her in person once again.And perhaps out of his frustration, or perhaps out of a growing realization of what he really believed, his sermons grew even more fiery as time went on and they still had not heard from the Germans about their request to visit Theresienstadt.

How long could such a thing take?

Steffen had long since run out of patience for the process and knew full well how his impatience threatened his precarious standing with Poul Madsen. The only response he could think of was to work that much harder in the back room at Red Cross headquarters, filling boxes and covering them with brown kraft paper, taping them over and filling out labels. On one of those spring workdays, his pair of longhandled scissors flew across the paper, nipping his finger and drawing blood. He noticed too late that he had decorated one of the labels with tiny spatters of red, but he popped his thumb in his mouth to stem the bleeding as much as he could—just as Herr Madsen filled the doorway to the supply room behind him. Steffen pulled his thumb out of his mouth as quickly as he could.

"It's June 18." Herr Madsen waved a paper at Steffen. "I thought you'd want to know."

Well, no, actually it was still May. Even Steffen could have told him that, though he frequently lost track of the exact date. But seldom the month. Herr Madsen waved the paper again and smiled.

"Don't you understand? We finally have approval to visit Theresienstadt. This is what you've been waiting for, no?"

"We?" Steffen dropped the package on the floor. "That includes me—is that what you're saying?"

"Of course it does. Right here." He pointed to his paper."Herr Poul Madsen and his assistant. You're the assistant, are you not?"

"Yes, of course. I mean, I suppose I am." Now Steffen couldn't help smiling, though he wasn't quite sure if that was the correct response. Would Herr Madsen mind him screaming or dancing a jig in the middle of the floor? Instead he fixed his tie and cleared his throat. "But that's just three weeks from now. I'll need to get ready."

As if he hadn't been preparing every day of this longest winter.

NORTHERN CZECHOSLOVAKIA

FRIDAY MORNING, 23 JUNI 1944

My life in the camp was one of desperation,

hard work, hunger, disease, [and] being eaten alive by vermin.

Instead of plush toys, small children played with live rats.

—CHARLOTTE GUTHMANN OPFERMANN,

THERESIENSTADT SURVIVOR

N
ormally the northern Czech countryside might have looked quite cheery in June, as the hillsides rolled out vast carpets of snow-white and golden wildflowers, and fields of lush green hay rediscovered new life in the first glittering rays of a morning sun. Little towns along the rail line appeared freshly scrubbed, and there even might be several birds he had not seen before. But as Steffen stared out the window of their southbound train, he saw none of that. He simply rested his head back against the seat and listened to the rhythm of wheels beneath their feet, imagining what lay ahead but afraid to anticipate the horror that must be waiting.

He did allow himself to imagine her face, however, and the memory of a smile he had kept with him over these long months, through winter and spring. Despite everything that had happened, would she have held on to that, at least? Perhaps. If God answered prayer, perhaps.

In his pocket he clutched the dozen treasured letters he'd received from Hanne while she was in Theresienstadt, and he might have read them all over yet again if he didn't already have them memorized. She worked in the clinic and found it a challenge. She missed her friends at Bispebjerg, of course, but there was nothing to be done about that. She wanted to know more of what he believed, wanted to know more about his Messiah. And she missed Steffen most of all. He smiled at that part. Perhaps she might have said more, but they both labored under the constant assumption that others would be reading each letter before it reached its intended recipient.

In the seat next to him Herr Madsen shuffled papers on the little briefcase desk he'd balanced on his lap since they'd departed København the evening before. The man seemed never to sleep, rarely left the first- class sleeper compartment they occupied, and never stopped working. If he wasn't reading thick, bound reports, he was apparently writing them— despite the constant rocking of the train. The motion seemed to do little to make the man's illegible handwriting any worse.

The only diversion Herr Madsen allowed himself was the hourly cigarette, lit precisely at the top of the hour and smoked for precisely three minutes, then extinguished. As a result Steffen could set his own watch by the regularity of Herr Madsen's personal habits, and frequently he did.

Finally, upon the lighting of the morning's second cigarette, Herr Madsen turned for a moment to his assistant and peered at him over his glasses.

"We'll be there shortly, you know."

Steffen adjusted his tie and nodded as he consulted his watch, though he knew the time without looking.

"Another hour?"

Herr Madsen nodded. "Let's go over again exactly what I'd like you to do. I'm unsure how much of our tour will be on foot. I assume they'll allow us to tour the camp in some kind of vehicle, given the size of the place."

"Approximately five city blocks by nine city blocks. Streets are laid out in a grid pattern. Completely walled on all sides. I have a map for you, when you're ready."

Herr Madsen smiled at Steffen's efficient answer.

"You've done your homework. In any case, please be sure to have several of your notebooks on hand, as I'll be calling on you to take notes as we go."

Steffen patted his small case, full of writing supplies and extra pencils. Given Herr Madsen's penchant for efficiency, it would not do to run out. Next to these he'd packed a small camera case with the Kodak Retina camera and several rolls of 35 millimeter film. A fine little camera, actually. He would not come up short.

"Also," added Herr Madsen, "you will take photographs of whatever I indicate—but only what I indicate. Nothing more and nothing less. They will probably also have official military photographers on hand, but it will be convenient to have our own resources, as well."

"I understand."

Yes, but the butterflies in his stomach obviously did not arise from the complexity of his task. Anyone could take notes and snap a few directed pictures. But the farther south they traveled, the more his stomach knotted into a tight ball.So when a white-jacketed porter stopped by the compartment a few minutes later offering coffee and small German cookies, Steffen could only hold up a hand and decline. Herr Madsen looked at him quizzically.

"Better take advantage of the offer, Steffen." He took a cup as the porter poured steaming black coffee, and several small round cookies besides. "You won't get this kind of treatment back home."

Very true. Steffen was sorely tempted to take a few cookies and save them in his pocket. But that was just the start of their VIP treatment; when they finally pulled into the
Bogosovice
station later that morning, one would have thought der Führer himself had paid the little Czech town a visit. Colorful red and black banners decorated the station, along with large signs shouting their "
Velkommen Dänuschen Roten Kreutze!"

Welcome to the Danish Red Cross, indeed. A brass band of perhaps ten or twelve lederhosen-clad musicians played a lively German dance tune from the moment Herr Madsen and Steffen stepped off the train. Smiling uniformed Germans lined the platform, some of them clapping their polite, orchestrated welcomes. All that was missing, thought Steffen, was a champagne reception. Perhaps that would come later. For now, a little blond girl, perhaps six or seven years old and as cute as they came, stepped up with bouquets of daisies for each of them. Steffen smiled his thanks, though he wasn't sure what to do with his bouquet and tucked it under the flap of his portfolio case.

Close behind the girl a smiling SS officer in polished boots stepped up, nodded his head, and clicked his heels in Teutonic fashion.

"A very warm welcome to Theresienstadt," he told them, offering his hand. "I am Obersturmführer Karl Rahm, the camp kommandant, and I will be accompanying your delegation today. If there is anything you require in the course of your tour, you can be assured that I will see to it."

Herr Madsen made the introductions from their side, and they were hurried off the platform to a waiting black Mercedes. German efficiency and all that. But when Steffen held back just a moment to tie his shoe, he noticed the band had already stopped playing, and with their machine guns, two gray-suited German guards immediately poked and prodded the unfortunate musicians toward the back of a waiting troop transport. The poor man with the tuba had the worst time of it, and he was harried most mercilessly.

Late for another concert? Steffen didn't think so. But when he finished tying his shoe and caught up with the others, the meaning behind Rahm's sharp glare could not be mistaken, even when masked by a smile.

"For your safety," he said, "I must ask you to stay with the group at all times. This is imperative. And now, the city is only a short drive away."

Without further discussion they were guided into the idling car. And almost before the doors slammed they were hurtling down a gravel lane toward the distant walled city.Herr Madsen pulled out a neatly typed list from his briefcase and extended it to the obersturmführer in the front seat.

"Here's a list of the places we'd like to see," he told their host. "Although if you have additional suggestions, we would consider that, as well."

"Of course." Rahm gave the list a cursory glance before folding it neatly and slipping it into his own vest pocket. But when Steffen craned his neck he could see the clipboard on Rahm's lap. A carefully drawn city map indicated a route marked in red, along with x's and times penciled in. He had a feeling their route, and their schedule, had already been determined.

And so it had. For the next two hours they kept to Rahm's plan—to the minute. First the welcome center, nearly as festive as the train station. Then the day care center, filled with happy children painting lovely pictures and enjoying a mid-morning snack. Their center seemed freshly painted and newly decorated with child-sized tables and chairs.Everything one might expect in a similar center back home.Rahm beamed and patted a youngster on the head.

"You like it here very much," he said, "don't you?"

The little boy nodded and returned to his painting, a castle with clouds and a fire- breathing dragon. He looked freshly scrubbed and his hair was cut short, and he pulled at the collar of his little shirt as if he had never before worn one.Steffen bent down to ask a question of his own, and the rosycheeked little fellow looked up at him with a hint of fear in his eyes.

"Did anyone tell you what to say to visitors like me?" Steffen asked in a quiet voice. But the boy would only press his lips together and look toward the nearest soldier. The entourage was already leaving.

"A photograph over here, Petersen." Herr Madsen had already located another photogenic view, this time out the window and down the street toward the central plaza.