Wildflowers of Terezin (41 page)

So much could be said. She wrote back that he most surely should follow Henning's advice, that he should rest and drink plenty of fluids, and that such an illness—whatever it was— would be nothing to trifle with.

Trifle? Not at all.
He grinned as he wrote the next letter, sitting next to the open window of his study and enjoying the warmth of July.
It's just that I have a favorite nurse who attended me before. It would have been nice if she could have been here this time, as well.

Naturally she agreed. And so it went through the rest of that troubled year, week after week, as Steffen struggled to meet the needs of his parish, perhaps never quite recovered but avoiding the subject of his failing health in letter after letter. And as they shared their hearts more and more deeply, Steffen fought harder and more desperately against the darkness all around him, using the sharpest and best weapons at his disposal—carefully veiled but ultimately fiery anti-Nazi sermons from the pulpit at Sankt Stefan's.

SANKT STEFAN'S KIRKE, KØBENHAVN

SUNDAY MORNING, 19 NOVEMBER 1944

Never cease loving a person, and never give up hope for him,

for even the prodigal son who had fallen most low,

could still be saved.

—SØREN KIERKEGAARD

S
teffen hadn't meant to be prophetic, at least not in a personal sense. He simply thought the verse made sense in his talk that morning, though it wasn't the "official" text for that week.

From his sermon of 19 November: "For it was the apostle Poul who said he was 'already being poured out like a drink offering,' and I fear we all know his meaning here, and today.Who do you know in our city who has poured his or her own life out for the rest of us? We are near the end, you and I. And the occupiers must know this, as well."

As he delivered the final lines of that sermon he gripped the sides of his pulpit, fighting to remain conscious as stars filled his eyesight. He paused to catch his breath and found himself sweating profusely, just as he had some months earlier.Had the fever returned?

Now the entire congregation swam before his eyes. The ship model hanging from the ceiling seemed to have hit rough water, as well. He hoped the good ship Sankt Stefan was equipped with lifeboats.

"And now," he managed, "You'll please excuse me, as I'm feeling a bit faint. Perhaps it's the heat."

Yes, but in November? He must have managed to climb down off the elevated pulpit, and he must have made his way home safely. Those details remained somewhat hazy in his recollection. He must even have made it to his den, where he collapsed on his sofa. The next thing he remembered, however, was someone lifting a glass of cool water to his lips.

"
Tak,
Hanne," he told his nurse, smiling up at her. She'd finally come!

"Now you're hallucinating, too." Hanne turned into Henning, which to Steffen was not a pretty sight as he choked on the water. "Here, drink some more."

"How did you get here?" asked Steffen, recovering his breath.

"Your Pastor Viggo called me, sounding quite concerned.Said you didn't look well, just like before. But I was on my way over, anyway. Listen, can you hear me clearly?"

Steffen shook his head to clear his thoughts, then nodded.

"All right, then we're going to get you out of here, Steffen."

"What do you mean, out of here? Out of my apartment? To where?"

"Sweden. Across the Sound."

"Henning, that's crazy. You know I can't do that." He tried to focus. "There's no reason. And there's too much here for me to do."

"I'll drag you out of here myself, if I have to." Henning set his jaw. "I just found out you're next on the Nazi hit list."

Steffen paused as the words sunk in, though he didn't want to hear them.

"How would you know this?"

Henning didn't answer, just shook his head.

"Please, Henning. I can't deal with puzzles right now. My head hurts. My brain hurts. I can hardly think. Just tell me straight out: Was it Margrethe?"

This time Henning averted his eyes, giving Steffen reason to assume he was right about the church cleaning woman.

"I assume she needed the money," Henning finally explained as he stood up next to the sofa. "Germans pay well for information, you know. But maybe she was also concerned about you. In any case, she came to me with what she knew."

"That's good."

"Yes, but I want you to know I'm sorry. I didn't have anything to do with the decision to—"

"Decision to what? What decision? What are you talking about?"

"Don't ask me anymore. Believe me; you don't want to hear it."

"Henning!" Steffen forced himself to sit up, which made his head swim even more and his world go blurry. But he had to know. "You have to tell me."

Henning crossed his arms and sighed.

"Come on, Steffen. You know that people like her are in danger of . . . not waking up in the morning."

Steffen groaned when he finally understood his brother's meaning. It just seemed impossible the cleaning woman could have been a stikker—that she could have betrayed them, after all this time. Or that the Underground could have liquidated her.

"No." He laid his head back against the sofa, feeling as if he might faint. "Not Margrethe."

"Yes, Margrethe," his brother told him. "And if you stay here in København, you'll be as dead as her before tomorrow.The Nazis aren't going away, brother. We can't protect you anymore."

"They don't need to bother." Steffen grimaced in pain as he coughed and it rattled his chest. "Don't they know this darn recurring fever is going to take me out, anyway? All they have to do is wait a couple of days. Save themselves the trouble."

A moment later he gasped at the splash of ice-cold water to his face, and the shock snapped open his eyes.

"Don't you ever say that again, Steffen!" Henning shouted at him as he held an empty water glass. "I know you're sick. I know you've had a relapse or something of this scarlet fever thing. But you are not going to die, and you are not going to have that attitude. Do you understand me?"

Steffen gulped and nodded. If this was a nightmare, it was easily the most vivid he'd ever experienced. And if he didn't agree, Henning would surely strangle him, or worse.

"I hear you," he croaked, drying his face with the sleeve of his pajamas. Henning had certainly gotten his attention.

"Well, you'd better. Because I am not going to waste my time on anyone who has already given up on life. In fact I'm going to write your girlfriend, and she's not going to want to hear about your death wish. Because you, my brother, are going to live—whether you want to or not."

By this time Steffen could see clearly every bulging vein in Henning's neck, every broken blood vessel in his red eyes.Henning wasn't joking.

"Yes," Steffen replied, "but if I'm dead, too, they'll stop worrying about me."

"What did you say?"

"I said, if I'm dead, the Nazis won't care about me anymore."

But now the fog began to descend on his mind again, and all he could do was mumble.

"I could just hide under the bed, and . . ."

He couldn't finish his thought. But he thought he felt Henning's strong grip on his shoulder, and his help as hegot dressed. Everything else faded into a dream, bits and fragments of remembering, blended with half-remembered fantasies, and there was no telling the two apart. He lost all track of time—minutes and hours, or days and weeks? He could not say, except he did recall something about riding in the ambulance. Later the cry of gulls and a salty tang in the air told him they were by the sea, then the rocking of waves and the feeling of being surrounded by fish told him he was even closer. Perhaps on a boat of some kind?

He begged God for forgiveness, for allowing Margrethe to be killed, as if he could have done something to prevent it.He called for Henning, and for Hanne, but neither of them could help him. Neither of them could hear.

And then he fell into a long, feverish sleep.

"Another Red Cross package from your friend in København." Dr. Janecek pulled the parcel up on the table. It did not take much to tear it open, since it had obviously been inspected at least once before. He reached into the top of the package to pull out a card, and handed it over to Hanne without even checking.

"How did you know it was for me?" she asked, and tried not to blush as he teased her.

"You mean, like all the other notes? They're all for you, of course. And I assume they're still from the same gentleman.Rabbi Petersen, is it?"

He winked when he said the name. Rabbi, indeed. He knew who it was.

"Well, yes." But instead of saving it for later, as she'd intended, she frowned and looked more closely this time.Whose handwriting was this?

"Something wrong?" asked Dr. Janecek, and she quickly scanned the note for clues.

"It's written by Steffen's brother, Henning."

"Another interested party?"

"No, no. Steffen apparently wasn't able to write himself.He's very ill. Henning says he's been getting worse for the past several days."