Wildflowers of Terezin (4 page)

BISPEBJERG HOSPITAL KØBENHAVN

SATURDAY AFTERNOON, 18 SEPTEMBER 1943

Being born in a duck yard does not matter,

if only you are hatched from a swan's egg.

—HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

S
teffen could not remember a longer night, trying to pretend he was asleep after he had exhausted his store of encouraging words for the man who saw all kinds of people hiding under his bed and German soldiers just outside the door. Fortunately, this time he was mistaken, but Steffen couldn't convince him of that.

And Steffen must have finally dozed off, as it turned out, when the next thing he remembered was someone shaking him awake.

"Steffen, what are you doing here?"

Steffen woke to see his younger brother Henning's face, only centimeters away. In some ways it was like peering too closely into a mirror: Henning had been given the same large ears, deep blue eyes and long nose, only his hair had turned lighter and wavier. That, and he looked much younger than the four years between them.

"Henning!" gasped Steffen, shaking off a drowsy headache."You startled me!"

"Not as much as you startled me, when I heard."

Steffen's mind spun. "But how? How did you hear?"

"One of my friends told me there was a shootout yesterday on Nørrebrogade, and that that they carried two German soldiers and a pastor away. He thought he recognized you, but he wasn't sure if you were alive."

"Well, I was, last time I checked. Did you hear what happened to my bicycle?"

"Look at you!" Henning pointed at the bandages on Steffen's chin and forehead. "You're nearly left for dead in the street and the only thing you're worried about is your bicycle."

"Not true. I'm worried about getting out of here, too. But I do like the bike."

Steffen tried to point with his eyes at his roommate, who looked very much asleep, but one could never be sure.Henning studied the man a moment before turning back to his brother and lowering his voice.

"Listen, you weren't . . ." He hesitated, as if searching for words. "You weren't actually part of that action, were you? Because if you were, I need to know."

"I thought you Resistance guys kept that sort of thing secret from each other."

Henning frowned. "Stop messing around. Were you, or were you not, part of what happened there on Nørrebrogade?"

Henning looked so expectant, it almost reminded Steffen of the days after their mother died, when his little brother was just eighteen and their father was in Venezuela, or Siam, or wherever in the world his ship had taken him, and between the two of them Steffen was all the father they had. Not that it would have mattered much if
Far
had been home. But that was a long time ago, and he needed to not think about it so much anymore.

Still, for a brief moment, Steffen was almost tempted to tell his younger brother that he had been injured in the line of duty, so to speak. That he was . . . doing something for the Resistance, smuggling weapons, taking part in a street demonstration . . . or whatever else Henning and his Underground friends were doing. Instead he sighed and explained what had really happened, and watched as Henning's expression deflated, word by word.

"That's what I thought," Henning told him after Steffen had spilled all the details he could remember. "For a minute, there—"

"You needn't worry about me, little brother." Steffen reassured him, pointing to his bandaged forehead. "This is the worst kind of trouble I've gotten myself into. But you of all people know it wasn't my fault."

"Of course it wasn't." Henning frowned and straightened back up. "And that's precisely the trouble."

"I don't see how that's a problem." Steffen felt his temperature rising despite all his efforts to keep his voice level and his expression cool.

"Well, it is. You're too cautious. You're always too cautious.With women you're too cautious. Why else are you not married, yet? With politics you're too cautious. With life in general you're too cautious."

"Interesting. I don't recall inviting you to come here and insult me."

Steffen glanced over at his roommate, who had finally stirred a bit as Henning raised his voice. Or perhaps they had both raised their voices. Henning didn't seem to care.

"I'm not insulting you," he fired back. "It's true. When other people are out in the streets, putting their lives on the line, you're safe inside, preparing your next sermon."

"Oh, yes. It's quite obvious how safe I've been." Steffen showed off the bandages on his hands to contradict his brother's charges.

"As you said, it wasn't your fault."

"And it wasn't my fault the Gestapo fellow came looking for me."

"Wait a minute, what?" Henning nearly choked. "You didn't tell me anything about Gestapo."

"You didn't ask." Steffen shrugged. "But he came to the other room I was in, wanting to question me."

"And?"

"And the nurse turned him away. Said I was sedated or sleeping and couldn't be disturbed."

"I take it you weren't."

"I could hear what was going on. But as soon as he left she wheeled me over here."

"Smart girl. I'm going to have to thank her, next time I see her."

"But you don't know who I'm talking about."

"You mean Nurse Hanne?" Henning smiled. "She's the one who told me where to find you."

By this time Steffen's roommate was sitting up in bed, fully awake. As the brothers spoke he pointed to the hallway.

"They're here!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. If that didn't bring a nurse running, nothing would. They looked at each other, then out at the empty hall.

"Who's here?" Henning finally asked. But the poor man cowered in his bed, breathless and still pointing.

"Hitler and his bodyguards! Don't you see? Right out in the hallway. They're looking for us. Get out of here while you still can!"

Steffen lowered his voice once again and leaned toward his brother.

"He's been saying that kind of thing all night. He sleeps and then he wakes up and shouts something absurd."

"You don't believe me?" asked his roommate. "Look for yourself!"

Well, yes, someone had arrived at their door, all right— probably in response to the man shouting. Fortunately it wasn't Hitler or his men, but Nurse Hanne Abrahamsen, holding a bulging paper sack. She didn't smile.

"He's back, already," she told them. And by now Henning would probably have a good idea who she was talking about. "He might not find you in this ward, but—"

"I'll take that." Henning took the bag of Steffen's clothes. "We'll be out of here in just a couple of minutes."

"I'm very sorry, Pastor." She looked straight at Steffen. "I know it's very much too soon for you to leave. But I don't know if the German is going to believe our story."

"Well, but . . . thanks for everything you're doing. You have no idea how much I appreciate—"

"I'll take care of him." Henning took charge. "Thanks, Hanne. You know we always appreciate what you all do here at Bispebjerg. Especially when it's my brother. But you'd better go."

Steffen didn't know what to say as the nurse gave him a knowing look as she nodded and slipped back out of the room. What had she heard of their conversation?

Meanwhile Henning passed his brother the bag of clothes, helping him first with his ripped white shirt, then his trousers.

"Better wear your coat over that shirt," said Henning. "Looks like you've been in a battle."

True. The front of the shirt carried blood stains and several holes from the glass and the street. But when he shrugged on his black jacket a stabbing pain in his side reminded him of where he'd been injured by the glass.

"Ow!" He winced. "But . . . wouldn't there be some kind of paperwork to complete? I would have to check out."

"From where, Steffen? You're not even checked in."

"Right." Steffen had to think it through. No sense in doing something illegal, or anything that would cast him in a less than positive light.

"No time for that, now," said Henning. "We'll leave by the side entrance."

"How do you know your way around here so well?" wondered Steffen. Henning didn't answer, so he paused by the door and turned to his roommate.

"Get out while you can!" cried the man. Steffen smiled and nodded his goodbye.

"Come on." Henning took him by the arm, and it was all Steffen could do to keep up with him as they practically sprinted through the hallway and pushed through a side entrance. The strange thing was, none of the nurses seemed to give them a second glance.

Even more strange was the waiting ambulance outside the back door, unlocked and unmanned. It resembled one of the Falck—Danish rescue and fire service—station cars, only older, like a large van with the long hood, painted bright red on the lower half and black on the upper. Henning glanced quickly around the courtyard, then climbed into the driver's seat and motioned for his brother to get in the other side.Steffen shook his head in disbelief.

"What are you doing?"