For Such a Time (11 page)

The creak of wheels grew loud as the handcart lumbered past her. Both women kept their eyes downcast. It took only a moment to understand their reaction before Stella tore the runic armband of the Hakenkreuz from her sleeve and stuffed it into her pocket. She didn’t care that the colonel ordered her to wear it; she wasn’t about to look any more despicable than she felt.

When the colonel returned with the captain, Stella avoided Hermann’s gaze as she followed the pair deeper into the ghetto. The faint hammering she’d heard revealed three prisoners mounting a new sign over an old storefront. Beyond the large window glass, two women in kerchiefs dusted shelves and cleaned the floor.

“Foodstuffs and supplies for the stores and Gasthäuser will be stocked just before the Red Cross arrives, Herr Kommandant. We’ll also issue new clothing that day. The children have been warned to stay clean—we don’t want them soiled before the Swiss get here.” The captain waved a hand toward the prisoners. “As you can see, every shop and room is being cleaned and painted, depending on the need for visibility.”

Painfully thin men struggled on ladders to raise the heavy sign above the door and nail it into place. The air reeked of fresh paint, unwashed bodies, and the tang of cut timber. Shame pricked at Stella, observing their frayed cotton clothes while she remained snug and warm beneath layers of wool. How she wished she could help them!

The dilemma continued to plague her long after they’d left the scene, and the hammering faded against the crunch of boots in new snow. They walked some distance before the faint sounds of music drifted toward them. Stella paused to listen.

“The Jews are preparing a program for the Red Cross,” the colonel explained. “I understand Obersturmbannführer Eichmann and his aides visited here last year and were given a full-length performance of Verdi’s
Requiem
.” He inclined his ear, then turned to her. “It sounds like they’re rehearsing
The Bartered Bride
. Would you like to go and hear them practice?”

“Very much, Herr Kommandant.” Thrilled at the possibility of again seeing her uncle, she started to walk toward the music.

“Fräulein, where is your armband?”

Stella paused, blinking at the force of Hermann’s sharpness. She looked askance at the colonel, but he too seemed to await her answer. “It became loose. I have it here.” She dug into her pocket and withdrew the offensive piece of cloth.

Hermann stepped forward. “I’ll help you.”

“Allow me.” The colonel cut in front of him and refastened the band to her sleeve. “Captain, don’t you have a certain matter to attend to?”

Stella could feel Hermann’s rancor as he watched them. “Jawohl, Herr Kommandant.”

Swiftly he departed, leaving her and the colonel to continue on until they reached a large Gasthaus with a painted window sign that read
TEREZIN
CAFÉ
.

Stella peered beyond the entrance. High-arched ceilings hosted dimly lit chandeliers. Bistro tables and chairs, newly painted and gleaming, sat in rows on either side of the cavernous room. A lighted stage held a quartet of seated musicians with instruments—horn, drums, cello, and violin—playing lively music from one of the scenes of the opera.

She felt a sentimental rush; it was so much like Struber’s—a cozy nightclub at the north end of Heidelberg, where she and
Marta often stopped after work for hot, sweetened Kaffee and to listen to local bands play. Stella had developed a crush on a particular saxophone player, a young man named Kurt, whose soulful music made her spirits soar and her heart sing.

It seemed so long ago now, back when the world still held hope.

She entered the café, the colonel right behind her. The music halted. A hushed silence fell over the room, followed by an explosion of scuffling chairs as both musicians and patrons rose to their feet. They stood at attention, arms woodenly at their sides, their shocked expressions fastened on walls, floors, tables—anywhere but Stella and her escort.

She blushed as she scanned the sea of pale faces. Like the musicians last night and the women in the square, these people thought she was the enemy. They seemed as afraid of her as they were of the colonel.

“Continue,” he ordered the musicians. Then he turned to her. “I believe you owe me a dance, Fräulein.”

She had no time to object as he hooked his cane onto the back of a chair and dragged her through the swiftly parting throng toward the front of the stage. Humiliated at his display in front of her people, she stared straight ahead; their unspoken condemnation pierced her with a surgeon’s precision while her mind screamed denial at the wordless charges.

“Play the ‘Blue Danube Waltz,’” the colonel instructed, before taking her into his arms.

The musicians didn’t move. As the colonel narrowed his eyes on the four, Stella grew afraid for them. “Please,” she called out. “We wish to hear the waltz now.”

Possibly they detected her urgency, or perhaps they were roused from their stupor by the chafing look from their commandant. Either way, the dulcet strains of the waltz began, sluggish at first until fear finally succumbed to their love for music. The notes echoed strong and radiant throughout the whitewashed grotto, drenching the air with vibrant melody.

The colonel sailed with Stella across the floor, and her pleasure in their shared love of the waltz dampened her fervent wish to end the ordeal. Forcing herself to relax, she followed the colonel’s lead, noting his slight limp as their steps eddied back and forth together.

“I apologize for my awkwardness,” he said, reading her thoughts, “but I promise your toes are quite safe.”

“You dance well,” she admitted, drawn by his quiet dignity.

“Considering that a year ago I couldn’t walk, I’ll agree with you, Fräulein.”

Stella hid her shock. “What happened to you?”

“The war,” he said dismissively. “But I’m content to be here now, dancing with you in my arms. And I prefer this kind of exercise to the daily dose of pain from my sergeant.”

“Sergeant Grossman causes you pain?”

“In a manner of speaking. Since Sevastopal, he’s been the relentless advocate for my strengthening exercises.” A smile touched his lips. “Certainly the inspiration for my success . . .” He glanced over her shoulder. “Ah, the captain is coming this way, and seems very determined.”

Stella turned to see Hermann stalking toward them, his gaze leveled on her.

“Perhaps he wants to cut in?”

“Nein!” Stella cringed, watching his approach.

“Kiss me.”

The colonel’s words brought her head around. “What?”

He leaned in. “Please, Stella. It’s the only way I can protect you.”

She drew back. “What are you talking about?”

“If you kiss me, then he’ll know you’re off-limits. He’ll never bother you again.”

She gaped at him. The previous evening’s nightmare seemed about to replay itself, only this time she was in the colonel’s arms while the captain stormed toward them.

“Hurry,” he whispered, a mere breath from her lips. “Or would you prefer that I kill him?”

His recent threat rang in her ears, and Stella thought of how the monster Hermann had beaten her uncle. Then there were the lists of countless Jews he’d sent to Auschwitz.
Yes,
I could watch him die
.

But what of the colonel? Was she prepared to risk his death if Hermann won?

Taking no time to further consider her actions, Stella pressed a kiss to his lips. The colonel’s response was immediate; his mouth captured hers, lightly at first, then more deeply as he drew her into the circle of his arms.

Stunned, Stella felt herself swept away by his kiss. Any fear she’d harbored was banished by his gentleness, and she relaxed against him, reassured by his tender embrace and the pleasing scent of pine and snow and spice that was so unlike the captain’s onion stench of the night before. In fact, so unlike the captain . . .

He seemed reluctant to end the kiss, finally raising his head slowly. Dazed, Stella opened her eyes and saw him staring over her head at the captain.

His look made her shiver.

“Herr Kommandant.” Thinly veiled fury threatened to crack Hermann’s icy façade. He withdrew a packet of papers from inside his tunic and thrust them at the colonel. “The latest stores update—delivered into your hands, as requested. Do you wish to continue inspecting the ghetto?”

The waltz had ended. Stella tried to move away, shaken by what she’d done. The colonel maintained his iron grip on her. “Nein, I’ve seen enough. In fact, I believe everything is now as it should be.”

His implied meaning was not lost on Hermann, who clenched his jaw in response. Stella seesawed between humiliation and anger. The captain hadn’t intended to cut in at all; the colonel
tricked her into that kiss. Well, she wasn’t a meaty bone to be fought over by two hungry dogs!

“Carry on with your other duties, Captain. Fräulein and I will return to the car shortly.”

“Very well, Herr Kommandant.” Flashing Stella his contempt, Hermann clicked his bootheels and spun away to leave the café.

“Shall we sit?”

More command than request, the colonel placed his hand at the small of her back and urged her into the empty bistro chair where he’d left his cane. He sat down beside her.

The Jews continued to stand. Stella’s resentment lessened as he motioned her people to resume their seats.

“What would you like to hear, Stella?”

He acted as though the kiss never happened, which only made her angrier at being the pawn in his game with the captain. Defiance overrode her fear.
“‘Friling,’”
she blurted out.

A hushed intake of breath rippled over the sea of downcast faces. The Polish ghetto song, a man’s lament to his beloved wife killed by Nazis, had traveled as far as Dachau, where Stella first heard it.

“I’m not familiar with that music. What’s it about?”

Feeling the crowd’s tension, Stella’s sanity returned. Had foolishness goaded her to speak, or was it the need to gauge his reaction? Could she afford to exercise a bit of courage? “It’s a Yiddish song of springtime, Herr Kommandant,” she said at last. “And of love.”

She held her breath, expecting his refusal. He surprised her when he said, “Love is a noble ideal, regardless of origin.” He waved toward the musicians. “Play this song.”

Sweet, melancholy strains floated across the vast ceiling to penetrate every corner of the room. Anxiety seemed to fade in the people around Stella as each man and woman drifted on the tide of wistful music, bodies swaying slightly with each measure.

Stella closed her eyes, and for a little while she forgot the
harsh realities of the ghetto. At that moment she understood how these people, stripped of everything, could sit in a make-believe bistro and free their minds, if not their bodies, to the soft, lilting notes.

The music finally ended. Stella opened her eyes.

“Happy now?” the colonel asked.

She gazed out at their somber audience and it occurred to her to tell him she was miserable wearing the Jew Killer’s badge in front of her people, and that the sight of these hollowed, gray faces filled her with despair. That they stood in the midst of war, and when it was over there would be nothing left for her or any of them.

But when she turned, she caught his eager look. Stella found she couldn’t say the words, though they would hardly prove fatal. She thought instead of his kiss—manipulative, arrogant, gentle. Her anger ebbed, and she managed a smile. “Thank you, Herr Kommandant.”

“Aric,” he insisted. “I want you to say my name.”

She leaned back against her chair, unwilling to breach another barrier with him.

“Just once.” He reached across the table to cover her hand with his. “It would make
me
happy.”

His face again wore that rare, unguarded look of expectancy. It seemed niggardly to refuse him. “All right . . . Aric.”

His smile took her breath away. Dazzling against his bronzed features, it struck at the heart of her weakened state. Had she kissed him strictly for her own protection against Hermann, or was she putting herself more at risk than her keeping secrets?

“Let’s return to the house.” He rose, helping her to her feet. Everyone else stood, as well. Several cast furtive glances in Stella’s direction.

She’d hoped for another chance to see her uncle. It dawned on her then that he’d been at the house last night, helping Joseph with the case of food. He’d also witnessed her disgrace
with the captain, who had been furious; and at the barracks, the colonel had salvaged Hermann’s pride only to shatter it here in this room.

Was Morty safe from the monster’s wrath? “Shouldn’t we visit the rest of the ghetto?” she asked, overcome with a need to resolve her fear.

He shook his head. “I’m certain Captain Hermann’s pride in the SS will allow for nothing less than perfection when General Feldman arrives on Monday.” A sardonic smile touched his lips. “Why? Was there something else you wished to see?”

Outside the café, Stella burrowed deeper into her coat and tried to conjure reasons to keep them in the ghetto without making him suspicious. But only angry frustration crowded her thoughts. “There is nothing else,” she told him.

Back at the car, she observed Hermann directing soldiers to haul wooden crates into a garrison building across from the old barracks. Her uncle was nowhere to be seen. Still, her relief seemed elusive as she willed rather than believed him safe.

“We still have weeks before your ‘Friling,’ Stella. Let’s get out of the cold.”

The colonel stood at the open car door. His words brought Stella up short. He’d indulged her—indulged them all—with the Yiddish song. Had he also understand the lyrics?

She let him assist her into the back seat, and when he climbed in after her, he flashed a smile. Stella observed the generous lines of his mouth, then quickly looked away.

Danger took its many forms; her own seemed as decidedly grave as her uncle’s. She must find a way to save them both before it was too late.

 12 

She begged him to put an end to the evil plan . . . against the Jews.

Esther 8:3

T
UESDAY
, F
EBRUARY
29, 1944

W
e are honored by your desire to visit Theresienstadt.” Aric adjusted his desk pad while he dictated his upcoming speech for the Red Cross. “We invite you to see for yourself that the prisoners interned here are well cared for. They receive plenty of food, clothing, and shelter, and we offer them intellectual and cultural activities. This facility is representative of all our other camps . . .”

He paused when Stella stopped writing. “Is there a problem?”

Her blue eyes blazed with condemnation. Was she still angry with him?

Yesterday he’d bullied her into a kiss. The opportunity to set Hermann in his place had been too good to resist. Yet Aric couldn’t forget how wonderful Stella had felt in his arms, or the way she’d responded to him. Even later, when her face burned with resentment, she’d been unable to hide her yearning. He’d been consumed by his own.

The Jew song “Friling” with its haunting melody of love still lingered in his mind. She must have sung it as a child when she was raised by them.

She
will come to hate you, Schmidt.
A shadow of regret pierced him. He’d crossed the line, allowing himself to get too close before his better judgment kicked in.

He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. Nor did he enjoy her eyeing him like a stain she’d discovered on her sleeve. “Speak freely, Stella,” he said, irritated at having to offer the liberty before she would tell him her thoughts.

She flushed a rosy pink. “Are you certain you want to say these things to the Red Cross?”

He noted her trembling hands. “Why not?”

“Because . . .” She hesitated. “Every word is a lie.”

Leaning back in his chair, Aric covered his surprise at her blatant insult. Admiration doused the hottest sparks of his ire before he said, “You’ve certainly become the paradox. You sit and quail like a frightened rabbit, yet you condemn my actions with all the inflated conceit of the Gestapo. At this rate, you’ll soon be running my camp, yes?”

Her color faded. “You misunderstand me, Herr Kommandant! We both witnessed Captain Hermann’s cruelty yesterday, how he abused that old man. If you hadn’t interceded, the prisoner might be dead now. Those people in the ghetto wear rags for clothes. Many looked as though they haven’t eaten a decent meal in a long time.”

“And you think you could do a better job?”

“I believe you are a man with compassion.” She wore a look of earnestness. “Since you have not been with the SS very long, you must not be aware—”

“Compassion?” Her naïveté struck him like a fist. It was an aching reminder of his duty . . . and the fact he could have no future with her. “I have none, I assure you,” he said, shoveling dirt onto the grave of his hopes. “Do you think me so duped by
my own officers that I believe we run a regular Gasthaus here?” A second shovelful.

Her face crumpled. “But I thought—”

“Do you see an award for compassion among these?” He jabbed at the decorations pinned to his breast pocket. “They represent kills. Blood sacrifices to the Reich.” Glaring at her, he tossed the last shovelful. “Make no mistake, Fräulein. I understand far more than you about what’s happening in this war.”

Through a haze of anger, Aric saw her fear and hated himself in that moment. He’d admitted the truth about what he really was—and he despised her reaction to it.

Desperate for even the illusion of escape, he rose from his desk and strode to the barred window of his office. Against a backdrop of searchlights and barbed wire surrounding the Pflanzengarten, snow fell in heavy flakes, landing evenly against the white ground.

As a child, he’d marveled at nature’s exactness. Aric tried to relive the excitement of a first snow: as a boy, tossing snowballs with his father, riding his pony through the heavy drifts blanketing the hills behind their home, making snow angels. But those days were like a sleeper’s dream, indistinct yet inherently memorable, pleasurable.

He glanced back at Stella. Seated on the edge of her chair, she looked poised for flight. Once more he’d dabbled in foolishness, courting her at every step and yesterday nearly succeeding—when he could never be fit company for her.

Dear
God, how can I survive this sordid trap of my
own making?

But no answer came to him; it seemed his conversations with God had gone the way of his childhood dreams.

Aric clenched his fists.

And he’d been awake far too long.

———

Stella glimpsed the anguish that wrestled for control in the colonel’s stony expression and thought of a wounded lion—vulnerable and dangerous yet fiercely proud.

She understood pride. Pride held real fear at bay, the kind of terror that penetrated the mind, stripping away all reasoning. At Dachau the Nazis had tried to destroy hers.

“I believe you are capable of goodness,” she told him quietly. “You saved me from death.”

She saw him flinch. “My initial reason for saving your life wasn’t so honorable,” he said. “You were a mistake in paper work, a flaw in my otherwise impeccable, albeit brief, career as Kommandant of this camp. I wasn’t about to let those guards kill you. I wanted no corpse on my manifest. That you had clerical skills or might be related to an old family friend was merely an afterthought. You were to be sent on the train with the others.

“Until you looked at me.” He turned to her. “You were wearing that ragged shirt, and your hand still gripped the child’s. I couldn’t just leave you.”

Stella’s breath caught painfully.

“I had expected aversion from you, or at least fear,” he said. “But your eyes burned with a determination I’ve rarely seen, an unwillingness to concede . . . even when everything seemed lost.” A sad smile replaced his anguish. “It had been so long since I had that kind of faith in anything, you see. So I decided to kidnap you from my own train and smuggle you across the border.”

His eyes shone like emerald glass, revealing a soul scarred by defeat. Stella understood that, too. Perhaps that was why she didn’t tell him that she couldn’t remember their first meeting, or that the faith he thought he saw in her was a mistake. “What do you really want from me?”

“The impossible,” he said hoarsely.

Their gazes held a long moment before being broken by heavy footfalls outside in the library.

“That would be Captain Hermann.” His tone lacked enthusiasm as he returned to the desk. “We’ll finish the speech
tomorrow, Stella. Take the rest of the day for yourself—the captain and I have much to discuss.”

Noting his haggard expression, Stella rose from her chair. He seemed as lost in his own tempest of emotions as she was, as if his silent anguish touched hers.

She fled from his office, and it occurred to her that perhaps Aric von Schmidt suffered even more than she did.

At least Stella
knew
the name of her demons.

Joseph stood at her bedroom door and listened for any stirring within. He glanced back toward the stairs, then down at the folded note in his hand. The torn half of an envelope, yellowed with age, felt damp from being wedged inside a piece of wet kindling that Yaakov Kadlec had collected that afternoon.

He fidgeted back and forth on his feet. She’d lied to him about being Jewish—he knew because he’d read the note. Joseph swallowed his hurt. Maybe she hadn’t told the truth about other things, like caring about what happened to him, or taking him to live with her when the war was over. Maybe she would leave him one day and never return.

He rubbed at the unexpected sting in his eyes with his sleeve and put his ear back to the door. Should he knock or just sneak in? She wasn’t going to keep any more secrets from him. He grabbed the doorknob and turned it.

She slept sprawled across her bed. Beside her was a pretty blue dress, the same one she’d worn
that
night, along with a needle and thread.

Joseph checked the bathroom for intruders before returning to her side.

“
Shalom
,” he whispered, and felt a mean spurt of satisfaction when her eyes flew open and she bolted upright in bed.

“Joseph!” she gasped. “You nearly scared me to death.”

He shrugged, though his conscience made him blush as he
handed her the wadded note. “Why didn’t you tell me you were Jewish?” he burst out, hating that he sounded like a sulky girl, as if she had broken his heart.

She didn’t say anything at first, her pretty face as white as snow. Air felt trapped in his lungs.

“I did it to protect you.”

His breath came out in a
whoosh
. “Protect me?” He got angry all over again. “I’m not a baby. I can take care of myself.” He sounded whiny, but he didn’t care.

A smile traced her lips. “Of course you can, little man.”

He straightened. He’d never tell her how much he liked it when she called him that. “So why did you lie?”

“I didn’t know you, and I was afraid. Aren’t you ever afraid, Joseph?”

He shook his head, dodging her gaze. He didn’t want anyone to know how scared he got when he was in the same room with Captain Hermann.

“When you asked me about Morty, you could have said something then.” He tried to hold on to his anger. “He’s your papa.”

She smiled at him. “He is like a father to me, but Morty’s my uncle.” The smile turned into a frown. “But I don’t recall asking you about him before.”

“When we talked about Auschwitz,” he reminded her. “I told you the Elders of the Judenrat—”

“The man who makes up the lists for Auschwitz is . . . is Morty?”

Her sudden grayish color worried him. “Are you going to get sick?”

“No,” she said, after taking a deep breath. “I just can’t believe such cruelty.”

“Morty?”

“The Nazis! They make my uncle choose from among his own people who will go to that horrible place.”

He’d never seen her so upset. Then her shoulders sagged and
she looked tired. “I saw him yesterday morning. He was also at Herr Kommandant’s party.”

A black cloud descended over Joseph as he glanced at the mended blue dress on the bed. He didn’t want to talk about the party—or the fact she’d kissed the captain, even though the note said she’d done it so they wouldn’t get caught stealing food. “I know you saw Morty in the ghetto.” He indicated the letter he’d given her. “He says so in there.”

“This is from my uncle?”

She began to open the note when Joseph stopped her. “Nein! You must wait until I leave and then lock yourself in there.” He pointed to the bathroom. “That way you won’t get caught.”

Her fingers stilled. “How did you get this?”

Joseph chewed at his lower lip. He had to be sure. “Did you mean what you said . . . Are you going to take me with you?”

She grabbed both of his hands. “I meant every word. You’ll come and live with me, like we planned.”

A thread of hesitation held him back. He wanted to believe her, but he felt . . . not scared, just uncomfortable—like he was still wearing the pink towel on his head. He didn’t like the feeling. “Maybe you lied about those other things just so I would answer your questions. How do I know I can trust you?”