Wildflowers of Terezin (7 page)

HANNE ABRAHAMSEN'S APARTMENT, BISPEBJERG HOSPITAL

FRIDAY, 24 SEPTEMBER 1943

In Jewish history there are no coincidences.

—ELIE WIESEL

H
anne finally retreated to her apartment at the end of her shift plus two long hours of overtime. Once inside, she leaned back on the front door with sigh, clicked the deadbolt shut, and kicked off her sensible nurse's shoes.

A glance at her watch told her she'd missed the nightly news program, but she was too exhausted for bad news.Instead she located one of her favorite records, slipped it onto the player, and collapsed onto her small couch to the sound of Artie Shaw's "Begin the Beguine."

Ja, that's better,
she told herself, allowing a small sigh. As she rubbed her throbbing feet she looked up at the window and did her best to avoid the pang of guilt as the music continued.Yes, but with the mandatory blackout shade drawn, what good would it do to light the two traditional Sabbath candles, anyway? At least she kept them on the windowsill— a symbol of her tattered allegiance to the religious customs that had framed her childhood.

In her mind's eye she imagined her mother standing before four candles at home, faithfully lighting them no later than eighteen minutes before sundown every Friday evening. As Mor had reminded Hanne and her younger sister, Marianne, so many times when they were young, the first signified
zakhor,
remembering the Sabbath, as they had been commanded in Exodus 20.

"What do the Scriptures command us?" their mother had asked, and Marianne was always the first to eagerly recite the verse:

"But the seventh day is a Sabbath to the Lord. . . . On it you shall not do any work, you or your son, or your daughter, your male servant, your female servant."

"How about your female nurse?" Hanne asked the darkness.

Meanwhile the phonograph's needle swept in a dizzy arc through the center of the record, back and forth, popping and hissing past the end of "Begin the Beguine." She flipped through her sizable record collection in the wooden crate on the floor, added to since she was a young teen. Perhaps "It Ain't Necessarily So" or "Jeepers, Creepers" might put her in a better mood. She liked the Americans, Benny Goodman and Duke Ellington. But in the end she sighed, lifted the arm back to its cradle, and snapped off the phonograph.

If only Marianne could have joined her here, Hanne would have gladly lit a candle for her sister's sake. She looked back across the shadows to the small framed photograph on her bookshelf, next to the phonograph. Two young girls in pinafore dresses smiled at the camera for the occasion of Hanne's eleventh birthday, just days before Marianne had died.

"And what about this candle?" The memory of Hanne's mother thankfully interrupted, after all these years, still probing the young sisters for a better answer to the weekly Sabbath quiz. Marianne would answer first, as always, once more.

"The second reminds us of
shamor,"
she would say in her bright little voice. "To keep. To guard."

That was the right answer, yes, week after week. But who had kept and guarded her little sister, after all? Who had guarded her against what had happened?

Even after all these years Hanne fought back tears as she closed her eyes. She wished she could not see her mother carefully lighting each candle, waving her hands across their rising heat three times as if to welcome the Sabbath, then covering her face with her hands to hide from the light before reciting the blessing:

Barukh atah Adonai eloheinu melekh ha-olam . . .

Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the universe, who sanctified us with His commandments and commanded us to kindle the Sabbath candles.

Perhaps yes, this King of the universe had commanded them to observe the seventh day. And she might have, if Adonai had kept His end of the bargain. Now she found herself standing once again and looking down at the cold candles, mindful of just how far she had come since her growing-up years on
Schacksgade,
when she and her parents and Marianne would bundle up against cold December rains and walk together through
Ørsteds
park and across busy
Nørre Voldgade
to the Friday evening service at the synagogue on
Krystalgade.
Summers were much better. The only thing she didn't like back then was how long she had to wait before they returned home to the Sabbath meal, when her father recited a brief
Kiddush
prayer and they were finally free to eat.

"Well, I'm starving." She dismissed the memories with a wave of her hand, mindful of just how much it looked like her mother's, over the candles. She paused to wonder. Perhaps it wouldn't hurt to light just one, just to bring a little cheer to her small studio apartment. No one would see it from the outside.So she struck a single match to light one of her candles.Just one. Anything more, and it might appear she was giving in once again to the lopsided bargain of a God who seemed to demand everything and yet gave so little in return.

Just for the warmth,
she assured herself. For the atmosphere.
Hygge,
they called it, and the concept applied to everything from the knit cushion covers for the older upholstered chair in the corner of her tiny den, to the lovely lace curtains she'd received from her grandmother. Everything should add to the atmosphere. That was the Danish way.

The roses, however, were an entirely different matter. She had no idea how Aron had even come upon them during these days of ration cards, riots, and food shortages. How much had it cost him, with scarce
kroner
that would better be spent on something a little more practical?

Even so, with a pair of scissors she trimmed their stems and replaced them in the vase, granting another day or two of life. Funny how they smelled of nothing, though. Not of spring, or summer, or distant golden fields out of reach of this embattled city, occupied by foreign troops with ugly gray uniforms and grim, hard expressions.

Barukh atah Adonai
. . .

Her mother's words still echoed as Hanne's lone Sabbath candle sputtered for a moment before catching its full flame, as if considering whether it actually wanted to remember, or not. Hanne would remember, though on her terms.

She stood alone in the chilly apartment, waiting for the clang of the radiators to warm the evening. Meanwhile she kept her knit sweater on and huddled in the lone light of her single Sabbath candle, unorthodox as it was and not lit with the necessary prayer. And despite it all, her mind drifted to the thought of the pastor, Steffen, wondering how he was doing and if all his injuries were healing.

"Hanne! Phone call!"

She jumped when Kirsten knocked on the door, but didn't answer right away. She and her neighbor often traded nursing shifts, but Kirsten spent most of her time with a boyfriend in town. Despite the eight p.m. curfew, Hanne thought it funny that she would be in tonight and here to answer the single phone down the hall. Maybe she'd been waiting for a call herself.

"Hanne! You in there? I think it's your boyfriend."

Still Hanne didn't answer, just watched the glow of the candle as Kirsten knocked one more time.

"I'm going to tell him you're out with Dr. Kielsgaard tonight."

Hanne had to smile. Was that the best Kirsten could come up with? Dr. Kielsgaard had to be the shortest doctor on staff, with a mousy little voice and a crooked smile that only a mother could love. Or a wife. As it happened, Dr. Kielsgaard was also happily married with three young children.

Fortunately that was Kirsten's last effort, as Hanne heard her neighbor mumble something else and pad back down the hallway. So Aron was probably wondering why Hanne hadn't showed up at Sabbath services once again. This time her well-used excuse that she wasn't feeling well might not hold up as much as it had before. But she simply could not bear the thought of going through the motions with Aron and her family, once again. Please, no.

Instead she would put on another record, perhaps, and if she still had enough kerosene she might even heat up a can of ham she'd been saving for a special occasion. Talk about guilty pleasures for this lapsed Jewish girl! A warm sponge bath might be nice, as well.

She would explain to Aron that she'd had to work late, and he would have to accept it. There. Was there anything else to decide?

Out in the hallway, she heard the phone ringing once more, and again. Only this time, no one was answering.

"Come on," she whispered through the door, "someone pick up the phone, out there."

Still it rang, until Hanne finally had to unbolt her door and peek out to make sure no one else had heard. Surely? But whoever was calling this time wasn't giving up.

Against her better judgment she tiptoed out onto the cold wood floor in her stockings, past the silent doors of three other nurses, and hovered above the single black phone on its spindly little stand at the end of the hallway. For a moment she wondered if it could be Aron again. She could always pretend it was a faulty connection and hang up.