For Such a Time (17 page)

 19 

“Have a gallows built, seventy-five feet high, and ask the king in the morning to have Mordecai hanged on it.”

Esther 5:14

T
error ripped through Stella as she rushed to keep pace with Aric’s flying descent of the stairs. “Where is Grossman?” he barked to the boy behind them.

“He opened the back door and then fell down. Helen’s with him.”

Once inside the kitchen, Stella looked on as Aric knelt beside his prostrate young sergeant. He held the bloodstained handle of a paring knife. “Joseph, go to the front of the house and fetch Corporal Martin. Schnell!”

As the boy scampered away, Helen knelt on Grossman’s other side and spread out a thick blanket. She and Aric worked to roll Grossman’s body over onto the makeshift gurney.

Joseph returned with Corporal Martin. “Help me lift him, Corporal. We’ll take him to the boy’s room,” Aric instructed.

Stella rushed forward to lift a corner of the blanket, and the four of them carried Grossman to Joseph’s room, placing him on the cot. Even in her dazed state, Stella registered the house
keeper’s efficiency: bowls of hot water, bandages, a needle and thread had all been laid out on a table beside the bed. With deft movements, Helen peeled away Grossman’s bloodstained tunic. When the sergeant emitted a groan, Aric’s tense features relaxed. “Hang on, my friend,” he whispered. “Helen will take care of you.”

He shot a meaningful look at the housekeeper before leaving the room. Aric went straight to the library and picked up the telephone on Stella’s desk. After a moment, he slammed the dead receiver back on its cradle. “When will they get these accursed lines fixed?” He turned to glare at his corporal. “Take my car and fetch the surgeon!”

The soldier saluted and flew from the room. Aric looked furious as he stormed back to the kitchen. Stella raced to keep up with him. “I want to see the man who did this,” he growled.

As if on cue, the back door to the kitchen burst open. A gold-toothed Sergeant Koch entered holding Morty by the collar.

Stella bit back a cry of panic.

“Herr Kommandant, I caught this Jew trying to escape to the forest. He wears Sergeant Grossman’s blood on his hands.”

Morty stood with his shoulders slumped, his eyes and cheeks swollen from recent blows. He glanced at Stella long enough to convey his defeat—and to warn her to silence.

Scapegoat,
her mind screamed as pieces fell into place. Morty was being blamed for this attempted murder. But why hadn’t he been shot down? Why did Koch keep him alive? Surely he knew Morty would deny the accusation. But then who would believe a Jew?

Her heart raced. “W-what are you saying? It isn’t true!”

Stella’s outburst garnered different looks from each man. Koch stared at her with blatant hatred, while Morty shook his head, his honey-brown eyes wide with fear.

Aric’s icy stare was worst by far. “Go to your room, Fräulein.”

“But, Aric—”

“Go now!”

Stella cast another despairing look at her uncle before she fled up the stairs so fast her heart nearly burst as she entered her room. Collapsing on the bed, she lay against the coverlet, suffocating with the building pressure in her chest, unable to purge what she felt. How long had it been since she’d cried or even screamed at the top of her lungs?

But her tears wouldn’t come. And right now, more than anything, she wanted to bellow her rage like an irate newborn forced to leave its mother’s womb, loud and lusty enough to echo downstairs. Let them hear the sound of her heart breaking.

But all she heard was the roaring in her ears, the rasping of her own breath.

Morty would die. She knew this because Aric was a man with few choices when it came to Jews. And Jews would always be made to pay.

She finally dragged herself from the bed after what seemed like hours. In the bathroom she splashed cold water against her face, then studied her pale reflection in the mirror. The beggar’s eyes stared back at her, decidedly pathetic. She turned from the dismal image.

Back in her room, the music box caught her attention, along with the Bible that still lay on her nightstand.

She picked up Aric’s gift to hurl it against the floor. But then the cover fell open, releasing the lilting notes of the “Blue Danube Waltz.” Stella held the music box close as the soft, sweet tune eased the vise of her emotions. Eventually she trailed a fingertip across the tiny pink and blue porcelain roses that adorned its top and brushed against the red velvet interior—

She heard the soft
snick
of a latch before a hidden bottom panel sprang open. An old, worn photograph lay within, of a young dark-haired woman in a sleeveless dress, seated on a bench beneath an oak tree. Her slender arms hugged a wiry boy on her lap as she appeared to read to him from a book he
held open for her. The boy, five or six years of age and with the same dark hair, gazed up at her just as the picture was taken. Adoration filled his tender expression.

Stella hardened her heart to a rush of unwanted sentiment as she examined the secret compartment. Aric must certainly be unaware of it, otherwise he’d have held on to such a precious keepsake.

It was the perfect hiding place.

She removed the picture, then fished beneath the mattress for Morty’s note and Grand Cross. Her chest ached as she turned the medal over in her hand. Would she ever see him alive again?

After tucking her uncle’s note inside the compartment, she added the Cross—and then changed her mind. Stella went to the armoire and rummaged through clothing until she found a length of white ribbon from one of her slips. She made a necklace of the Cross and slipped it over her head. The comforting weight eased her, and she clutched the talisman with her fingertips, the metal cool and unyielding like the valor it stood for.

Stella replaced the music box on the nightstand, and the Bible caught her eye. She thought of the cross Marta had worn.
“According to the Bible, His death saved the
world.”

Aric’s words; did he believe them, as Marta did?

Stella didn’t think so. Her best friend had claimed the cross gave her strength and the knowledge that God was always with her. Aric seemed lost . . .

She shoved away the unwanted sentimentality. God might be with Marta, perhaps even Aric, but He’d left Stella and Morty to the wolves. Now her uncle would likely die.

She hid his prized medal beneath her sweater, close to her heart. She would keep her own vigil. Despite Morty’s unwavering faith, he also believed in his niece. Stella would be his strength.

The old photograph lay on the bed. She picked it up and studied the sweet-faced child, the man who would now determine her uncle’s fate.

Aric had improved the ghetto food. He’d also relocated Morty to a safer place in order to avoid Hermann’s brutality. Was it possible his compassion would overrule duty in this instance?

Stella tucked the picture inside her sweater, next to the cross. She would keep vigil for him, as well.

“Can I come in?”

Joseph peered around the door. Stella rushed to him and pulled him inside. “What will they do to him?”

“Herr Kommandant is very angry.” Joseph’s young face wore serious lines. “And Koch wants to take Morty to the Kleine Festung.”

Stella bit back a cry. The boy had told her of the Little Fortress, where the SS tortured Jews through beatings, amputation, drowning, or simply left them in a room to starve. Few ever returned to tell about it. Morty would never survive such a hideous place.

“I must speak to Herr Kommandant.” She ran her fingers through her short, blond curls.

“What will you tell him?”

What could she say? That she’d lied to him all this time? That she was Jewish and Morty was her uncle? Stella collapsed to sit on the bed. Joseph hovered close. “Is it certain my uncle will be taken there?”

He shrugged. “The doctor is here and wants to take Sergeant Grossman back to his clinic. Helen’s going, too. Herr Kommandant is helping to put Grossman into the back of the lorry.” He paused. “Koch is still waiting in the kitchen with Morty.”

She grabbed his shoulders. “Please, kaddishel, you must find out what will happen to Morty. His chances could improve if Grossman lives. But if the sergeant dies . . .”

It didn’t bode well that the surgeon thought it necessary to take Grossman to hospital. “Either way, Herr Kommandant and I are still in danger,” she said. “I think Koch has put his plan into action.”

It would be so much easier if Morty could tell Aric of the murder plot he’d overheard in Hermann’s office. But then Stella and Joseph would be at risk, and Aric wouldn’t take the word of a Jew over his own man, especially a Jew with blood on his hands.

It didn’t seem to matter that Morty had been beaten before they tainted him with false evidence. No, Koch and Brucker must go through with their plan tonight; it was the only way to expose them and perhaps save her uncle.

“Joseph, I need a weapon.” Seeing his surprised look, she added, “An effective one. If I have to use it, I want it to hurt.”

“Tonight, after Herr Kommandant goes to his room, I’ll bring you the poker from the hearth.” He eyed her anxiously. “Will that work?”

“Perfectly,” she lied. She would have preferred a pistol but wasn’t willing to give the child such a dangerous assignment.

“May I stay with you?”

Stella shook her head. “Hide—in a closet, the cellar, anywhere they won’t find you.” She shot him her most stern look. “Whatever happens tonight, you must be safe. Give me your word you’ll stay hidden.”

His mouth twisted in obvious reluctance. “I promise.”

“I want to show you something.” She reached for the music box and opened it. Melodious notes broke the silence as she pressed the release for the hidden compartment and revealed Morty’s last note.

Joseph sucked in a quick breath. “You must get rid of it!”

“This message is proof of the murder plot. If something happens to Herr Kommandant or to me, you must take it and give it to a person you trust.” She pressed the secret panel back into place. “Helen . . . or Sergeant Grossman, if he survives.”

“Nothing will happen to you,” Joseph said fiercely. “Not if you hide, too!”

She reached to brush back a lock of his hair. “They would
only tear this house apart until they found me . . . and you, as well. I can’t let that happen. Now go and see if you can find out what they plan for my uncle.”

Stella stared at the closed door long after he left. Her thoughts focused on Grossman. Morty’s only hope was that he might live, and the fact she must save Aric and herself tonight.

There was nothing left to do. Time would decide all of their fates. Yet the Grand Cross beneath her sweater no longer felt so steadfast and indomitable as it had earlier. She didn’t know if she had the strength necessary to face tonight.

Stella’s gaze drifted toward the Bible still lying on top of the nightstand. Maybe time had nothing to do with it . . .

She picked up the book and held it to her chest. “Speak to me,” she whispered into the empty room. Then she closed her eyes and did something she hadn’t done for a long, long time.

She prayed.

 20 

That night the king could not sleep. . . .

Esther 6:1

I
t was the first time he’d actually thought about running.

Aric reached for his bottle of morphine tablets on the nightstand, then changed his mind. Instead he opened the drawer and retrieved his gold cigarette case. He’d tried to quit smoking after the loss of his lung, yet the need for calm, whenever it struck, always seemed to outweigh his discomfort. And as far as habits went—he eyed the brown glass bottle on the table—it seemed the lesser of two evils.

Swiping a match against the table, he glanced at the alarm clock wedged between the pill bottle and a leftover cup of Kaffee from breakfast.

Midnight. Aric lit the cigarette and lay back against his pillow. Taking a long drag, he fought an urge to cough before releasing the billow of smoke. Moonlight from the window captured the haze as it curled and snaked and finally dissipated.

Desertion
. Even the word left him empty, defeated before the fight. Mocking everything he once believed in.
This is what
your life has come to.

He fixed his gaze on the glowing red tip of the cigarette. Without fully comprehending how it happened, he had reached a
crossroad. He could follow orders and allow the monster within to completely take him, or he could rebel for Stella’s sake and martyr himself as some righteous fool.

Or he could simply turn tail and run.

“Coward,” he breathed into the darkness. Aric tossed back the covers and swung his feet onto the floor. How often had he barked the insult at one recruit or another? Never had he considered applying it to himself, not Aric von Schmidt, whose bold stratagems and reckless penchant for success had raised him through the ranks of the Wehrmacht. He was a man who had taken part in enough horror and butchery to last lifetimes, and for the sake of his ideals, and his vengeance, had stood by and watched as they killed his own father for a “Greater Germany.”

He took another long pull on the cigarette. Perhaps what frightened him most was becoming a man who wavered on the edge of his own regret. If he abandoned the Cause now, it would mean he’d spent years living a lie—an admission he wasn’t certain he could face. What little remained of him would have nothing to cling to, not the tattered remains of his idealism, jaded as it was, and not the vindicating anger he fostered against his father’s duplicity. He would have no country, no money, and no possessions. There would be no place to hide from the Allies or the Germans.

And still he would lose her.

Stella’s anger over the fate of one old man still confounded him. Aric’s mind flashed to the Jew—the same prisoner whom Stella championed their first day in the ghetto, the same one who witnessed Brucker’s humiliation when Aric had inspected the ghetto food.

How different he’d looked this afternoon: resignation pooled among bruised features, his bloody hands clenched at his sides. Why would the only remaining Elder of the Judenrat risk all to murder a single German soldier? And how did he get a knife past the guards, if in fact he was searched before leaving the ghetto?

Stella believed him innocent, while Aric still had his doubts. Enough to have instructed Koch to safeguard the prisoner at the Little Fortress until further questioning. Hopefully when Grossman returned from the clinic, he’d be recovered enough to clear up the matter.

His friend
would
recover. Aric’s relief at the surgeon’s prognosis had cooled some of his rage. Young Rand Grossman’s laughing blue eyes and breezy nature reminded him much of Georg Zimmer, once Aric’s closest friend at Bonn. And like Georg, Rand had proven his loyalty.

The doctors had said Aric would never walk again. Then Rand, a young corporal at the time, arrived to share his room at the hospital after losing his left hand to a grenade. The two discovered they’d fought together at Kiev. Rand’s indomitable faith and hero worship in his former commander helped to restore Aric’s confidence. Soon he moved with the aid of a walker and, some days later, mastered the use of a cane.

By the time they discharged him from hospital, he walked out on his own two feet.
Wundermann
, the medical staff had called him. Miracle Man.

But miracles no longer existed for him. Like his virtue, they’d perished with the past, buried in the foxholes he left behind, lost in the vacant stares of countless boys he’d watched die—on both sides.

Plunging his cigarette into the cup on his nightstand, Aric rose and walked to the window. The snow had finally stopped. Clear black sky held the three-quarter moon like a beam in a tunnel. The orb had been just as bright the night he’d brought Stella home. He remembered carrying her in his arms, enjoying her undisguised pleasure over the simple brick structure as she looked at him with those breathtaking eyes. Aric’s pulse quickened. She made him want to believe . . .

A sudden movement below caught his attention. A sentry stepped away from the house onto the shoveled walkway.
Corporal Martin. Aric started to turn from the window when the guard glanced upward. Moonlight caught the soldier’s familiar features.

Lieutenant Brucker.

Where
was Martin?

Aric’s hackles rose as he grabbed his pants from the wooden valet and pulled them on. He retrieved his Browning 9mm pistol from its holster on the bedpost. Drawing back the slide, he resumed his surveillance at the window.

Brucker chose that moment to turn and aim a Mauser in his direction. Aric jerked back into the shadows. The lieutenant grinned and relaxed his stance, then returned the machine gun to his side. Marching back toward the house, he disappeared beneath the eave of the porch.

Aric went to his bedroom door and opened it. The stillness broke with faint sounds of a lock turning downstairs. Edging the door wider, he slipped behind it and observed the hall through the space between its hinges. What would Brucker do next?

He heard another noise, this time from the back door at the kitchen.

The lieutenant wasn’t alone.

A minute later, the banister creaked. Intruders were mounting the stairs.

Stella slept unprotected in the bedroom closest to the landing. Aric clenched his teeth as he gripped the Browning and waited.

Two of them—shadowy faces first, then torsos and legs—ascended into view. No one else appeared on the landing. In the darkened hall, Aric couldn’t make out the man with Brucker except that he was taller and bulkier than the lieutenant. He carried a butcher knife in his free hand.

Both men approached noiselessly. Pistols raised, they scanned all directions. When they paused at Stella’s room, Aric bolted around the door to face them. “Halt!” He aimed his Browning at the taller intruder.

Light flashed into the hall as Stella’s door flew open. Like an avenging angel in white, she wielded what appeared to be the fire poker from his downstairs hearth. Screaming a warning—Aric thought she called his name—she landed a blow across Brucker’s midsection. The surprised lieutenant doubled over, dropping his pistol and knocking his accomplice against the banister.

Brucker caught his breath and let out a roar as he plowed toward Stella like a Panzer on maneuvers. The other man straightened and raised his pistol. He aimed for her head.

An earsplitting
crack
rent the air. Brucker froze as his companion dropped to his knees. Swaying once, twice, the other soldier finally tumbled sideways onto the floor. His pistol skittered across the carpet, the knife still clutched in his grasp. Vacant eyes stared upward while his slackened jaw exposed a gold tooth that glittered in the light from Stella’s room.

Koch? Aric swore under his breath.

———

The gunshot made Stella freeze. For an instant she was back at Dachau. A terrified whimper caught in her throat as she stared down at her clenched fist.

The fireplace poker, not the limp hand of a child, lay in her grasp.

“Scratch an itch, Brucker, and you’ll join your friend.”

She dragged her gaze from the weapon to see Aric only a few feet away, his gun aimed at her assailant.

“Stella, get back inside and shut the door.”

She turned to go. Brucker was faster. His arm snaked around her waist and pinned her to him like a human shield. Snow from his coat soaked through the back of her thin nightgown, and the acrid smell of his violence attacked her senses. He wrenched the poker from her and pressed the lethal tip to her throat. “All right, Jew lover, come and save her.”

———

Aric fingered the trigger of his weapon as he saw Stella’s fear, watched Brucker’s hands defile her innocent flesh.

But he wouldn’t let the monster loose. Not yet.

“I see you never learned to fight like a man, Brucker. Maybe you spent too much time beating up on children and weak old men. Even now you hide behind a woman.”

“You think to teach me?” Brucker’s grip jerked another gasp from Stella.

Aric shrugged while the creature inside howled to rip out Brucker’s throat. “You won’t learn it all in one night, but we have time for your first lesson.”

“Why should I?”

Aric drew a bead with his pistol on Brucker’s head. Silence filled the hall. “Come, Lieutenant, you know if you harm her, I’ll give you a third eye.” He smiled. “And all that pent-up anger dies with you.”

“So does the woman.”

Aric stepped forward. “I’m offering you a chance—your fists against mine.” He cocked his head. “Or are you afraid I’ll beat you?”

Brucker anted in. “I’ll show you fear.” He kept his eyes on Aric as he dragged Stella toward the banister. He kicked his own pistol along with his partner’s over the side. “Your turn, Kommandant.”

Aric dropped the Browning at his feet. “Let her go.”

For a long moment Brucker didn’t move. Then he shoved Stella away. She rushed toward Aric, hesitating when he kicked his own pistol over the ledge. His eyes remained fixed on Brucker. “Go into my room and lock the door,” he told her.

She froze and he glanced at her. Clearly she understood what was about to happen. Then she nodded and brushed past him into his room.

Tossing the poker over the rail, Brucker shrugged out of his jacket and shirt. Aric assessed his opponent. The lieutenant
was tall and lean and younger than Aric; still, he lacked skill in combat. It must be quick. Aric’s legs wouldn’t hold out for long.

Every nerve in his body pulsed with anticipation.

The lieutenant stood bare-chested, his fists thrust forward as he prepared for Aric’s attack. “Very well, old man. Impress me.”

Aric’s fists shook as he held himself in check. He smiled. Brucker was impatient; it would ultimately be his downfall.

True to nature, Brucker let out a cry and barreled toward him. Aric stood unmoving until the last possible moment—then sidestepped the lumbering lieutenant.

Brucker hit the wall with a loud grunt. Aric saw an opportunity, and with a snarl he jerked Brucker around. Cold rage ruled him as he sank his fists into the lieutenant’s soft belly once, twice, three times. He became deaf to the grunts and groans of his prey, ignoring the occasional fist that found its mark against his own flesh.

Brucker finally managed to free himself. Rolling sideways, he scrambled to his feet. He rammed his head into Aric’s gut and stole his breath as he shoved him against the rail. Wood cracked and splintered at Aric’s back; he twisted away as the banister collapsed. Sections of railing and debris pitched to the floor below.

Sweat trailed Aric’s body, making it easy to slip from Brucker’s grasp. He landed another fist to the lieutenant’s face. Brucker toppled backward, falling over the dead body of Koch.

“No more,” the younger man begged in a hoarse whisper. He’d curled into a fetal position. Aric staggered forward to stand over him.

“Get up.”

Brucker made to rise . . . then surprised Aric with a knife. It was Koch’s.
“Schwein!”
he screamed, lunging for Aric.

Aric kicked the knife from his hand. The blade catapulted toward the end of the hall. Clenching his bloodied fists, he glared at Brucker. “Now get up. We haven’t finished our lesson.”

Brucker struggled to his feet. His eyes, the right one nearly swollen shut from Aric’s blow, looked toward the stairs.