For Such a Time (36 page)

They each whipped off their caps and nodded vigorously.

“We’re not going to Auschwitz,” he informed them. “We’ll be switching near Prerov. Do you have a radio?”

Both men were extremely short. The taller of the two—who looked remarkably like the other except for his height—pointed to a wireless set at the back of the compartment. Aric swung around and grabbed up the radio.

The engineers watched while it flew off the train through the now-windowless door.

“Any weapons?” He aimed his Browning at the taller of the two.

They both paled and shook their heads.

“Do either of you speak German?”

The shorter man nodded, twisting his cap in his hands. “We are not allowed to have weapons, Herr Corporal.”

Aric smirked as he glanced down at his uniform, the one he’d taken from the enlisted man at the station. He lowered his pistol. “We’re going to Lemberg, in the Ukraine. Do you have enough fuel?”

“We had the tender filled before we left,” the taller man responded.

“Then get this crate up to speed. And no heroics—or you’ll leave the train just like your friend. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Aric slid open the opposite door of the compartment. Stepping outside, he made his way past the tender. Darkness had settled in, dropping the temperature even more.

Freezing wind pierced his face and hands like needles as he scaled to the roof of the first car. He lowered himself over one side using the ladder-style rungs adjacent to the door, until he reached the mechanism that held the door in place.

Gritting his teeth—more against the cold than his efforts—he drove back the iron bar from its seat. He kicked at the door several times with his boot before it opened. Several pairs of hands reached to pull him inside.

Air, hot and stifling, blasted him like a furnace. The car was so overcrowded he had to grip the door with one hand to keep from falling out of the train. He tore off his steel helmet and waited while Morty and Yaakov squeezed forward through the wall of bodies. Yaakov held a submachine gun. Morty, the Panzerfaust.

“Where is she?” Aric had to shout over the icy gusts at his back.

“I don’t know.” Morty seemed weaker than he had an hour before. His arms shook with the heavy weight of the tank gun. “With so many people pressed together, it’s nearly impossible to move.”

Aric tried shaking off his anxiety. “We’ll find her,” he said, more to convince himself than to reassure her uncle. He took the Panzerfaust from Morty and, with the old man’s help, strapped it onto his own back. “Let’s go. We’ll climb to the roof, then cross the tender to the engine room. It’s the only way.”

He replaced his helmet before turning to face the cold air that pushed through the open door. Bracing himself, he reached out to the nearest rung and began his ascent. Yaakov and Morty followed. He cast them backward glances, surprised at how easily the two older men kept up.

They had barely gained footing on the roof when a burst of machine-gun fire sliced over their heads. “Get down!” Aric yelled, but his words were snatched up by the furious wind. He turned in time to see Yaakov hit the deck—and Morty topple over the side.

Aric raised his head and tried to locate the enemy. Three German soldiers moved forward in a half crouch from the rear of the train. He reached for his pistol as another spray of fire passed
overhead. Slamming the side of his face against the roof, he heard a loud
clang
as a bullet hit the steel tender car behind them.

“Move!” he bellowed at Yaakov above the tempest.

They belly-crawled across the slatted roof of the train before diving into the tender. Between the front of the tender and the locomotive, a meter of space would shelter them from the hail of bullets. He and Yaakov slipped down into the tiny opening.

“Stay low and get inside the engine room,” Aric instructed. “Two civilian engineers are inside now, firing up the box. Make sure this train keeps moving. And take this with you”—he removed the tank gun and handed it to the other man—“while I settle up with these fools.”

Yaakov retreated, and Aric turned his attention back to the three soldiers now hidden from view fifty or sixty meters back. Somehow he’d been discovered, despite the fact he wore the uniform of an SS-Corporal, and they clearly meant to kill him.

Aric could feel the train gaining speed. As it began to round a bend in the track, he rose up from his crouched position. The convex position of the cars offered a clear glimpse of the soldiers creeping steadily in his direction. It would be several minutes before his range was accurate enough to fire at them. Steady against the piercing cold, Aric crawled to the side of the tender and faced the direction of the first car. His heart almost stopped at the sight of Morty, clinging to the lowest rung along the siding.

The old man’s feet dangled just centimeters above the clacking fury of wheels. The door to the car still lay partially open. Apparently no one had noticed his distress. Aric stuffed his pistol inside his coat pocket and then edged along the tender car until he gripped a support at the rear.

He extended a hand and held his breath. Morty tried to bridge the distance. It was no good—they were still too far apart. Aric unbuttoned his coat and released the buckle on his gun belt. He jerked on the black leather until it came free of the holster still strapped to his thigh.

It took Aric three attempts at tossing the makeshift lifeline before Morty’s outstretched fingers grabbed hold. Wrapping his hand several times in the leather, Aric yelled, “Let go!” over the noise. His arm burned with Morty’s weight; the old man swung for a moment, then rammed up against him. They gripped each other for a moment, clinging to the tender’s support.

Morty offered him a weak grin before fainting.

Aric hoisted the frail man over his shoulder. His chest burned as he worked his way back to the front of the tender. Setting Morty down in the small space, he began chafing his limbs.

Relief overrode his agitation when he glanced up to find Yaakov hovering. “I’ll take him inside, Herr Kommandant.” With a grunt, the Czech hefted Morty into his arms. Aric, fairly assured his beloved would not be grieving the loss of her uncle, returned to hunting down the three soldiers.

The clouds that hovered earlier had disappeared. Against a coal-black sky the full moon rode high, along with the first stars of night. Aric huddled behind the tender and caught his breath, despite the acrid smoke belching from the locomotive’s stack. Concern for Hadassah preyed upon his mind. Was she all right? Why hadn’t he seen her?

Even as he watched the slow approach of his enemy, Aric’s thoughts continued to churn. God willing, she would become his wife. He imagined his bleak existence colored in the glorious shades of her laughter and love. Their children . . .

He wanted a future with her—more than anything he’d ever desired before. The notion that he might never see her again needled at his sanity. She believed in him, the best about him.

He had to find her, but first he had to get rid of the three obstacles nearly upon him. Raising his pistol, Aric fired a random shot. As if on cue, two of the three soldiers tried to roll out of the way—and inadvertently pitched themselves over the sides of the train.

“Idiots,” he muttered before ducking down to miss the middle man opening fire. Aric heard the shots ricochet against the steel locomotive casing behind him. He raised his Browning and fired off three rounds.

The shooting stopped. Aric peered over the tender. The soldier lay in a lifeless heap on top of the train.

Moments later, Aric shoved what he hoped was their last impediment over the side.

———

“Thank God!” Yaakov greeted him as he made his way back inside.

“Amen to that.” Aric took the leather belt from Yaakov and re-threaded his holster.

Morty sat slouched in a corner of the engine room, lips blue with cold. His dark eyes gleamed in the dismal light of the car. “Thank you, my son,” he managed in a whisper. “Did you solve the problem outside?”

Aric nodded as he cinched his belt and returned the Browning to his side. “They tried to copy your performance but forgot to hang on.” He shook his head in wonder. “You’re lucky I didn’t drop you—that, or follow you under the wheels.”

Morty offered a faint smile. “I had faith in you.”

Aric’s mouth kicked up. “A family trait, then?” He removed the steel helmet and combed a hand through his hair. Thoughts of his beloved and her whereabouts made his smile fade.

The train slowed. Aric’s heart rate accelerated as he glanced out the engine room window. They were entering the city limits of Prague. “I take it you had no trouble with these two?” he asked Yaakov, looking at the two engineers.

Yaakov grinned. “Herr Kommandant, meet Karel Pavlik”—he turned to the taller one—“and his brother, Miko. They are my own countrymen!” He slapped Karel squarely on the back, and both brothers beamed at Aric. “They will take us anywhere we wish to go.”

The brothers nodded enthusiastically. Aric eyed them with suspicion. “Why?”

“Yaakov told us you plan to free the prisoners who were at Terezin,” offered Miko, the shorter of the two brothers. “Many of those prisoners are fellow Czechs.”

“We hate the Nazis,” Karel cut in, giving Aric’s SS uniform an overall hard stare. “First they steal our country, then our jobs. Finally they take our men, women, and children. Those of us who are not Jewish are forced to do their dirty work.” His tone held disgust. “We wear the stain of their sin on our hands.”

“I’m a Nazi.” Aric eyed the brothers. “How do you know I won’t turn against you?”

“Karel and I saw the way you forced that soldier over the side with your pistol.” Miko smiled shyly. “Either you didn’t like the cigarette or you share our dislike for your countrymen.”

“You also seem like a smart man.” Karel spoke this time. “Tell me, Herr Kommandant—do you know the workings of a steam locomotive?”

Aric shook his head. Karel grinned. “See? You need us. And Yaakov says you’re a good man, even for a Nazi.” His long features sobered. “Czechs do not lie, you know.”

“Of course not,” Aric said dryly, recalling Yaakov’s earlier performance on the stretcher.

“So we will help you,” Miko stated solemnly. “We will help you . . . help them.”

“Gut. I’m taking one of your pickaxes,” Aric said.

Yaakov and the Pavliks gaped at him. Even Morty eyed him questioningly. “I need to go and find Hadassah,” he explained, retrieving the tool mounted against the engine room wall. He withdrew his map and handed it to Yaakov. “Tell them everything.”

A moment later, Aric was gone.

 43 

“Since Mordecai, before whom your downfall has started, is of Jewish origin, you cannot stand against him. . . .”

Esther 6:13

P
rague’s city lights loomed into view as the train slowed. Hermann sat against a leather seat in the boot car, ignoring the sharp pain in his left shoulder.

He glanced at his watch. Another minute stretched with still no word from his men. He swore under his breath, again regretting his lengthy dalliance in Prague. Things had soured for him after that, most bitterly when his efforts to stop the train had dislocated his shoulder.

One of the guards who had hauled him inside had realigned bone with socket, then fashioned a sling from an old blanket. The incessant throbbing angered him, underscoring his lack of control in a situation already grossly out of hand. He breathed deeply to offset the pain that pricked him like needles. It wouldn’t be long before they stopped. Surely his men would bring him Aric von Schmidt, and then he could re-route the train to Theresienstadt.

Had Martin and Zeissen gained control of the fire? Thinking
of the black smoke he’d seen rising from the ghetto gave his gut a hard twist. Was the damage insubstantial . . . or more critical to tomorrow’s success with the Red Cross? He ground his teeth. If Schmidt was involved, it promised to be much, much worse.

Why was the Wehrmacht on this train? The question had plagued Hermann from the moment he became certain he
was
on board—the gunfire overhead minutes ago proved it.

This train was bound for Auschwitz. Death would meet the Jews riding it. Did the Wehrmacht wish to die with them? If so, why had he taken the corporal’s uniform at the train station? What was his plan?

Abruptly the train picked up speed. As he watched the yellow lights of Prague grow distant, Hermann’s insides turned cold—like the freezing boy who long ago stood outside Tiern’s Gasthaus in winter, begging food his mother couldn’t afford to purchase; or the poorly heated stone barracks and tinned rations he’d endured each day back at the camp.

Like the expression on General Feldman’s face when he discovered his newly appointed Kommandant had failed with the Embellishment.

With a grunt, Hermann vaulted from his chair. Why couldn’t three trained men take down one crippled soldier? He strode to the outer door and heaved it open. The frigid air outside formed an ice blanket around his sweat-soaked skin. He eyed the ladderlike rungs to the side that would take him to the roof. Carefully he hoisted his body up onto the first rung with his good arm, then proceeded to climb to the top of the car.

The blast of wind knocked him backward before he grabbed at a wooden runner that ran lengthwise along the rooftop. He rose cautiously and steadied his booted feet against the icy surface. The night sky was clear and black, and he was glad to have the moonlight.

There was no sign of his men. By the time he made his way to the middle of the train, Hermann wondered if his soldiers
had been left to die alongside the tracks. He stared out at the barren countryside rushing past him, deafened by the grinding of the train’s wheels. The fierce wind, laced with caustic smoke from the locomotive, tried to push him back.

He’d barely taken another step when he slammed facedown against the snowy deck. Pain exploded in his brain, obliterating any thought except that he’d been shot from behind.

He thought he might be dying. His lower body felt numbed, even warm, despite the glacial wind buffeting his head and shoulders. Soon, he wouldn’t feel anything . . .

He wasn’t shot. The realization dawned as he tried to straighten and found half of his body had fallen through the rotten boards of the train’s roof. The warmth against his legs was body heat—from the hundreds of Jews crammed in the cattle car below.

Hermann swore under his breath as he pushed himself from the hole, his shoulder screaming from the pain. He continued forward for a distance of ten more cars, moving crab-like along the slippery roof while keeping most of his weight on his right arm. He finally spied a lone figure on the roof, two cars ahead. “Wehrmacht,” he growled, recognizing the tall, broad-shouldered silhouette.

Despite his injuries, Hermann smiled. He’d found his quarry.

Hadassah’s eyes fluttered open to behold darkness. The air was stifling and reeked of urine and sweat. Feet shuffled around her head. She heard children crying, felt the rocking floor beneath her. A train?

She tried to rise, but something pinned her down. Her head throbbed with pain. She’d been unconscious. The guard . . .

She brushed her hands across her torso. The heavy weight—a child sprawled against her chest. She touched the baby-soft cheek, felt a thumb wedged securely between the child’s lips.
Anna? She felt a moment’s panic. No . . . no, the little girl from the ghetto—

The rest of Hadassah’s memory came back in a rush. Joseph!

Help me
. She wasn’t certain she’d spoken aloud until the pressure against her chest eased as hands pulled the child off of her. Again she tried to sit up, closing her eyes and holding her head until the pounding lessened.

“I need to stand.” This time she heard her own voice. Hands again reached out, this time grasping under her arms to raise her to her feet.

The air above the floor was noticeably cooler, and the stench lessened, too. Hadassah fought dizziness, but there was no danger of falling. A wall of bodies surrounded her.

“Is this the first car?” she called out, hoping for an answer. Human flesh pressed in on her from all sides, pushing her back and forth as the train rocked along its tracks.

A masculine voice spoke up beside her, “No, we’re somewhere in the middle.”

Hadassah’s heart sank. “Where are we?”

“I think we passed through a city about twenty minutes ago,” the voice answered. “There were lights—they shone through the window grates. We picked up speed again and they faded. That was before the roof caved in.”

Hadassah looked up and saw moonlight flooding through a hole that was half a meter wide, an opening large enough for a human.

“Someone fell through,” the voice said, confirming her suspicion. “I know it was a Nazi because he kicked a woman in the head with his jackboots. It didn’t take him long to pull himself up again.”

Could it be Aric searching for her? The cattle car suddenly pitched as the train made a sharp bend in the track. The body in front of Hadassah slammed backward with the motion. She felt the sharp jab of an object against her midriff. Several objects . . .

Flares! They were still inside her jacket—and the only means to signal Lenny Buczak.

She had to get to Aric. Hadassah glanced in the direction of the car door. “Does anyone have a gun?” she shouted so as to be heard.

“If we did,” said the same male voice beside her, “we’d have already blown the door open. As it is, we can hardly breathe.”

Her gaze flew to the hole in the ceiling. “I need to get up there.”

“Are you serious?”

“I have the flares!” she hissed at him. “Our contact won’t switch the track unless we give him a signal.”

When he didn’t respond, Hadassah wanted to scream. She might be too late. They could be near Prerov by now. “Didn’t you hear what I—?”

“You’re the one, aren’t you?”

The awe in his voice brought Hadassah up short. Then she heard the word
salvation
, and her temper exploded. “I’ll be your death if I can’t get to the front of this train in time!”

Whether he took her threat seriously or finally understood her explanation, the man, after a brief silence, said, “I will need another man. Avram!”

A moment later Hadassah felt herself lifted above the crowd by two strong pairs of hands. “Stand on our shoulders,” said the familiar voice. Others reached out to steady her as she planted a foot alongside either man’s head, then reached to grasp an edge of the gaping hole. Working to balance herself against the rocking motion of the train, she slowly rose to her full height while hands clamped like iron around both of her ankles.

“When you’re ready, Avram and I will push you through,” the voice called out.

Hadassah sensed all eyes upon her. Breathing inside the car seemed to stop. For an instant she was again that child of five standing on top of her uncle’s stack of crates. She said a quick
prayer that this time she wouldn’t fall. “Now!” she called to them. They immediately gave her a boost, and she hoisted herself through the opening.

Icy wind beat at her like a fist. Hadassah grasped the rail that ran lengthwise along the train. She fought to hang on, her body sliding back and forth against the icy surface like a netted fish. Exhaustion quickly set in and her shoulders ached. Splinters pierced her flesh as she gripped the wood even harder. She needed Aric . . .

Hadassah managed to pull herself forward a few centimeters before the wind overpowered her. She rested against the deck for several seconds, breathing hard, her teeth chattering. “P-please, Lord. Y-you didn’t bring me this f-far to f-fail, did you?” she called to the skies. “I c-can’t do this alone . . .”

Somewhere deep inside she found a small reserve of strength. Rising onto her knees, she clutched the rail. Frigid gusts whipped at her face, tearing her eyes as she crawled toward the front of the car. Above, she saw the moon glowing full and white, and the first stars glittered like diamonds against a black velvety sky.
Help me make it, Lord—

The train jogged sharply. Hadassah scrambled to stay anchored—then toppled backward when the slat broke away in her grasp. She screamed and clutched the piece of wood as her body plunged over the side.

Aric sat back on his knees and stared into the opening he’d hacked into the roof. The pickaxe he’d borrowed from the Pavlik brothers rested beside him.

After four boxcars, he still hadn’t found Hadassah. He tried to reassure himself with the possibility she’d boarded one of the cars farther back by mistake.

Aric didn’t want to consider anything else. Yet as he gripped the strapped handle of the pickaxe and slung it over his shoulder,
he couldn’t help feeling that the attack on them by three of his soldiers had something to do with his missing fiancée.

Someone at Theresienstadt must have known he was on this train. . . . Hermann? Had the captain, by some incredible stroke of fate, returned to the ghetto in time to see Aric board? If so, how did he notify the guards?