For Such a Time (19 page)

Flesh as bruised and battered as his spirit. Stella laid a palm over the area of his heart and felt his thundering pulse. To the left of her hand was an oval mark, almost hidden by the russet hair that covered his chest. She ran a fingertip along its roughened edge. A bullet hole . . .

———

Aric grasped her fingers, unable to catch his breath. Her touch felt as soft as meadow grass and just as sweet; her warmth was like the sun, penetrating the icy wall of his self-imposed isola
tion. She was his glimpse into heaven, a haven of light and love, purity and innocence. The joy of his youth, a place he could stay the rest of his life.
God, do
not tempt me with such false hope.

Stella gazed up at him, while concern—not ethereal light—clouded her features. “At the banquet you told the other officers you’d given your allegiance to Germany. You said you had the bullet holes to prove it. Are there more?”

Her anxiety washed over him like gentle rain. “A few stray shots. Nothing of import, except this one.” He glanced down at the scar. “It punctured a lung and grazed my spine on the way out. Bought my passage out of Stalingrad.”

“Is that why you couldn’t walk . . . for a time?”

He nodded. When she freed her fingers from his and again gently probed the mark, Aric shuddered at the contact. She looked up at him. “Does it still bother you?”

“Only when you touch me,” he whispered, straight-faced.

Her blue eyes widened in distress . . . before she flushed, smiling. He grinned back at her, pulling her hand to his lips as he kissed each fingertip.

She leaned to kiss his scar. Aric’s humor fled as emotions more poignant than pleasurable engulfed him. The caress, light, almost reverent, gave silent tribute to the mark that had altered the course of his life, as though she understood his displacement in a world with little compensation for crippled war heroes. As though she accepted him, despite his failings . . .

An ache began where her lips touched him, racing upward to constrict his throat. He blinked as he tried to assuage the unfamiliar burn in his eyes. Then he cupped her face and she lifted her gaze to his. “Thank you.” His words sounded strangled and so he kissed her again, this time slowly, tenderly . . .

“Herr Kommandant?” A knock sounded as a voice hailed him from outside the door.

“In a minute, Captain,” Aric called out, annoyed at the disruption.

The moment between them was lost. He gave Stella a last quick kiss and then donned his jacket. “I must see what he wants, Süsse. Why don’t you stay here tonight and get some sleep?”

She shook her head, lips still rosy from his kiss. “I’d prefer tea, in my own room, after the captain leaves the hall.”

He smiled. “Maybe you aren’t as innocent as I thought.”

“There’s a difference between innocence and naïveté,” she retorted with a blush. Her expression sobered as she wrapped his robe more tightly around herself. “Aric, who was the other soldier?”

“Sergeant Koch.” Her earlier brush with death renewed his anger. “Like your dream.”

“Do you think he had something to do with Grossman’s injury?”

She looked so soft and appealing. Warmth flooded Aric’s heart, dispelling his irritation. “It’s possible. I’ll speak with Rand when he returns.” He realized the direction of her questions, and his joy dimmed. “We’re back to that old man again, aren’t we?” Her face flushed and he had his answer. “If I determine the Jew is innocent, he’ll be sent back to the ghetto.”

She raised her chin. “And if it can’t be determined?”

Aric gave her a hard stare. “Then he’ll be punished.”

She turned away, and Aric sensed her sudden distance. It was their same argument, the breach that remained forever between them. He sighed. “Remember what I told you, Stella. You can’t have it both ways. Not in war. The risks are too high.”

When she said nothing, he left the room, the warmth of his pleasure lost beneath a frozen blanket of despair.

He couldn’t have it both ways, either.

 22 

And when the report was investigated and found to be true, the two officials were hanged on a gallows.

Esther 2:23

S
ATURDAY
, M
ARCH
4, 1944

B
right light stabbed Morty’s eyes as he stumbled outside the Kleine Festung.

His bruised cheeks and forehead itched in the bitter cold while his battered feet ached inside his too-tight shoes. Still, he lifted his face to the gray afternoon sky and praised God for his freedom from that horrible place—alive and in one piece.

A pair of SS guards held him up on either side as they dragged him back the kilometer’s distance to the ghetto. The one on his right cuffed him each time he tripped over a stone or a tree root impeding the path.

Morty ground his teeth with each painful step—a reminder of the thrashing to his insteps with a cane three centimeters thick. The commandant’s order to safeguard him had been ignored. Was it any surprise? It seemed his fate was sealed the moment Grossman’s body landed on the floor of the commandant’s kitchen. Even before that . . .

They had been collecting firewood at the edge of the forest behind the house when Morty spied the glint off Koch’s knife. The sergeant stole up behind Grossman from the cover of trees. Morty broke from the rest of the group and rushed to tackle Koch . . . but then Grossman turned and Koch plunged his blade into the man’s chest.

Koch noticed Morty then; he’d swung his machine gun off his shoulder and took aim at Morty’s head. Just about the moment he intended to pull the trigger, Corporal Sonntag bounded up the hill and called to Koch to halt.

Blackness had fallen over Morty, no doubt from the butt of Koch’s gun. When he awoke, the bloodied knife lay in his grasp, with more of the red stuff smeared on his clothing.

Koch had stood over him, shouting that Grossman was murdered.

So why hadn’t they killed him? And why was he being released? The commandant hadn’t asked for his side of the story. In any case, Morty planned to hold his tongue. A Jew didn’t go around accusing Nazis and live to tell about it.

And what about Hadassah . . . was she safe? Morty groaned and received another cuff to the side of his head. Shaking his dazed senses, he realized he could do nothing for his maideleh, at least not at the moment. He must cling to his vision. God would provide.

They arrived at the ghetto entrance. Morty’s upper lip beaded with sweat as he squinted up at the arched gate, reading the black wrought-iron letters welded in place:
Arbeit Macht Frei.

Work
Makes You Free
. Pah! Work only made a man hungry. And if he was lucky and got a morsel of food for his trouble, he might have enough strength to keep on working. Besides, no amount of work would change the fact they were all prisoners digging their own graves.

He and the others had toiled for weeks putting a good face on the town so the Red Cross could come and go with a clear
conscience and the Nazi agenda could proceed unchecked. But when it was over, thousands of Jews would continue being transported east.

Inside the gate, the two guards released him. Morty promptly collapsed to the ground. One soldier gave him a parting cuff before they turned and retreated from the ghetto.

Like a chubby baby learning his first steps, Morty used his hands as leverage to rise up onto his feet. Air whistled through his teeth as his traumatized soles took the full weight of his body. Nausea roiled in him as he took one teetering step after another in the direction of the ghetto kitchen. Several notorious gossips were likely crowded around the trestle table even now; they would know any details from last night—and whether or not Hadassah was safe.

Fire shot up his legs with each step, and though he prayed to block the pain, Morty was eventually forced to stop and rest.

He spied a flock of black uniforms marching near the old parade grounds at the far end of the ghetto.

A procession? It looked as though Theresienstadt’s entire company of SS were goose-stepping back and forth in tight formation, their steel helmets shining dully in the gray light. Crimson flags with the black-and-white Hakenkreuz writhed like fire-breathing serpents against the frigid gusts continually sweeping through the compound.

Morty’s pulse raced. Never before had they amassed in such a manner. As if they paid homage to some great man. The commandant . . . ?

Grunting with pain, he hobbled in their direction.

The broken remains of an ancient pillory stood near the Appellplatz close to where the soldiers marched. Next to the pillory was a gallows. Morty froze at the sight of two dark shapes swinging from the main truss. Like twin pendulums of a clock, they moved in counterpoint to each other, back and forth, back and forth . . .

Hadassah? Morty choked on a cry and stumbled onto the parade grounds. Dear God, let neither of them be his niece!

Dodging half a dozen soldiers, he finally got close enough to get a good look. The corpses were bound in black cloth, much like a burial shroud—except for their hands and faces.

Another gust rose up, and the bodies swayed slightly. Ropes creaked. The stench of blood and excrement touched his nostrils. Morty craned his neck to stare into the faces, doughy and bloated by exposure. Two pairs of vacant eyes bulged back at him. Koch and Brucker . . .

Relief drove him to his knees. He offered up a prayer to God for His miracle of justice. Then Morty rose and shot a glance at the marching soldiers.

Their backs were to him. He turned to hurl a glob of spit at Koch’s swaying body. “For your disgrace upon Germany,” he muttered. “And for my feet.”

It was then dawning struck. Had the commandant been victorious? Did that mean Hadassah was safe?

“Get away from there, Jude.”

A sharp object dug into his back.

“Turn around,” the voice said.

Morty obeyed. A young Soldat stood with his pistol leveled on him, an old Mauser C96 “broom handle” from the Great War.

“What were you doing there, just now?” The SS man waved his weapon toward the hanging bodies.

“Nothing.” Morty tried to ignore the alarm prickling along the back of his neck.

“Ja, for you,
Juden
, it’s always nothing,” the soldier sneered. “Now move. Herr Captain wants to see you.”

Prodded at gunpoint, Morty led the way to the building that housed Hermann’s office. He stared up at the charred remains of his handiwork before they passed inside the set of double doors. Instead of going up the stairs to the captain’s old office, however, Morty was directed down a narrow hall to the back
of the building. At the last doorway on the right, the soldier shoved him inside.

“Leave us, Corporal.”

Hermann spoke from behind a rustic pine desk. Morty heard the soldier close the door behind him, then cast a covert glance about the room. Hardly bigger than Morty’s coffin-sized office above the old bank, the chamber was just as sparse. A gray filing cabinet hugged the wall, while the room’s only window sat adjacent to the captain’s desk.

Behind Hermann, just as in the old office, the face of the Madman with his toothbrush mustache glared from the charred frame. Morty noted the absence of a Grand Cross, phony or otherwise. Satisfaction flowed through his aching body like balm.

“You look somewhat worse for wear. The Kleine Festung doesn’t agree with you?”

Morty pulled his attention back to Hermann. His legs shook as his feet throbbed.

“Come closer.”

Morty shuffled forward, biting the inside of his cheek.

“Herr Kommandant thought to pamper you, but I can see my men made good work.” Leaning back in his chair, Hermann retrieved the brass-handled letter opener from his desktop. It had the novel shape of a miniature Spanish sword.

“I would have preferred you dead,” he said, toying with the dagger-like blade. “I should kill you myself after the stunt you pulled. Not only did you steal
my
Cross”—he paused as if daring Morty to object—“but you burned up my office in the process.

“I also suspect you know things. Information that, depending on your answer, could either grant you safe return to your friends in the ghetto . . . or land you back in the Little Fortress.”

Steel flashed as Hermann thrust the blade into the desk’s smooth surface. “Tell me who helped you. Who spoke to Herr Kommandant about . . . certain issues?”

Morty’s heartbeat drummed so loud in his ears he feared the
captain might hear it. Still, he would die before betraying Joseph or Hadassah. “Herr Captain, I know nothing.”

“Of course you don’t. My men said as much after they questioned you about the fire.” Hermann’s gaze lit with mocking humor. “Believe it or not, Jew, I find your courage admirable, but I know you were in my office the afternoon of the fire. We found your footprints below the window.” He stared over the desk at Morty’s swollen feet. “Big as U-boats. And you dropped this.” He produced from the desk a rations tin that Morty clearly recognized.

“Did you enjoy your punishment at the Little Fortress?” Hermann sneered. “I thought it appropriate, since those oversized hooves got you into trouble in the first place. That, and the Cross.

“Now. Give me a name.” His humor evaporated. “Tell me, who else in this world is willing to aid an old Jew”—he arched a brow—“besides Herr Kommandant’s woman?”

A guttural sound rose in Morty’s throat.

“Ah, you care something for the pretty Fräulein?” Hermann looked eager as he rose from the chair. “Because she saved you that day in the old barracks?”

Lightning fast, Hermann’s fist shot out to connect with Morty’s jaw. Morty crumpled to the floor. “You’re vermin,” Hermann snarled down at him. “Unfit for the likes of her. Now give me a name!”

God
save me
. Blinding pain seized Morty as he struggled to his feet. Whether he answered or not, he was already a dead man. “I do not know—”

“What I’m talking about, yes, yes,” Hermann said impatiently. “Well, your accomplice will reveal himself soon enough.” He jerked the letter opener free. Morty stared at the gaping wound in the wood. “For now, I find it convenient to keep you alive. Later on . . .”

He held the blade’s razor tip to his finger, pricking the skin. “Now get out. Your animal stink fouls my office.”

Morty was astonished at the reprieve. He limped toward the door while pain from his jaw battled the trauma in his feet. Even so, his spirits rose, for he’d held death at bay, at least for the moment. So long as Joseph’s identity remained his secret. And Hadassah’s . . .

Despite his renewed determination to get news from the kitchen, Morty was forced to stop and rest after taking only a few steps. He leaned against the wall outside Hermann’s office and wiped his face with the back of his sleeve. As he drew away blood, he glanced back inside at the Nazi standing at the window.
Who is the animal, I wonder, Captain?

Mrs. Brenner greeted Morty at the kitchen door with a bowl of thick vegetable stew, two biscuits, and a loud kiss on the cheek. “God be praised, Morty Benjamin, you were right!”

Morty glanced toward the kitchen table, where several others sat, including his friend Yaakov Kadlec. Each clutched a small cup of diluted ersatz, which passed for ghetto Kaffee.