For Such a Time (26 page)

Helen rose from the chair. Before Stella knew what was happening, the older woman pulled her into an awkward embrace.

Stella felt strength in the arms that held her . . . and faith, even as she yearned for her own. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“I was telling Colonel von Schmidt this afternoon that he is fortunate to have such a disciplined officer in the captain here,” General Feldman said to the table at large. “We could use more like him at the Chancellery.”

“Captain Hermann
has
been quite an asset to the Reich,” Major Lindberg said with perfunctory obeisance. Seated to the left of the general, he gave the giggling Dita beside him a playful squeeze. Marenka, heavily rouged, clad in royal blue satin and minus one Lieutenant Neubach, nestled close to the general’s right. “What say you, Colonel?”

For the second night in a row, Aric all but ignored their conversation. He turned from scanning the sea of couples inside The Raging Boar to smile benignly at the major.

Feldman raised his glass to Hermann. “As I see it, you have only one conspicuous flaw, Captain.” He paused to chug down half his beer, then wiped his foamy lip with an edge of checkered tablecloth. “You still do not drink with us!”

His loud guffaw erupted into an even louder belch—producing more laughter as well as giggling from the women.

When Feldman finally recovered, he rubbed at his teary eyes and tried offering the captain the remains of his glass of beer.

Hermann put up a hand of refusal.

“What kind of German are you that you do not like Bier?” Feldman demanded.

“Herr General, as I explained last night, the roads are icy. Since I am driving, I feel obligated to stay sober.”

The general loosed a snort, his glass wavering in the air. “You see, Colonel? A remarkable man!”

Aric gripped the handle of his mug and shot his captain a disparaging glance. Hermann had wormed his way into Feldman’s overindulged senses, just as he’d made certain the boy would go on tomorrow’s train.

His own efforts to convince the general otherwise had merely increased the friction between them—as evidenced in Feldman’s current pursuit of his captain’s favor. “I agree, Herr General. Captain Hermann is always full of surprises,” he said dryly.

Feldman set down his glass with a heavy thud. “I believe all is in readiness for Thursday. Herr Reichsführer will be thrilled with the
Requiem
performance we saw this afternoon. And thanks to your captain’s efficiency here, the discrepancies I noted have been taken care of to my satisfaction.”

Leaning toward Major Lindberg, Feldman confided in a loud whisper, “With the war going so badly for us right now, success in creating the illusion of a Paradiesghetto at Theresienstadt is critical. If things were to go sour, well . . .”

“I’m certain all will go as planned, Herr General.” The major offered up his glass for a toast. “To success.”

The two women joined him. “Success!” they chorused.

The general raised his glass and beamed. “I believe our Führer will be pleased.” Then he slapped the tabletop with his palm. “In fact, I will telephone my report to Berlin in the morning, before I leave for Prague.” His eyes narrowed on Aric. “It will be a shame to miss your nuptials, Colonel. But I’ll be back on Thursday . . . to witness the radiance in your beautiful bride, eh?”

Hearing the general’s mocking tone, Aric smiled over the
rim of his glass. “Like a beacon on a mountain, Herr General,” he said.

“You’re getting married, Herr Colonel? Congratulations!” Lindberg said in pleased surprise. “Who is this lucky woman?”

“His lovely secretary,” the general supplied coolly.

“Fräulein Muller?” The major turned to Dita and winked. “She has thrown our poor captain over for a colonel, then?”

“She has, Major,” Aric responded through a burst of female laughter. He turned to Hermann. “I hope there are no hard feelings, Captain?”

“None, Herr Kommandant.” Hermann still looked more surprised than angry. “Where will this event take place?”

“Here, in Litomerice, with a private ceremony at noon tomorrow.”

“In a matter of hours, Schmidt will lay claim to the most beautiful woman in all of Europe.” The general took another swallow of beer.

Aric caught Marenka’s frown. Feldman had been much more attentive to the buxom, dark-haired beauty last night. “Surely you take exception to the lovely woman beside you, Herr General?” he asked.

Like a petulant child, the general slammed down his glass. “I don’t care all that much for brunettes, Colonel.” His bleary-eyed resentment bore into Aric. “I much prefer redheads.”

Aric masked his irritation and shot a quick glance at his watch. “It’s getting late. I suggest we adjourn for the evening. Herr General, if you are ready . . . ?”

Feldman seemed to collect himself and rose from his chair. They all followed suit. Aric felt relieved to end another evening with the group. “What time will you load the train tomorrow?” he asked Hermann.

“One o’clock, Herr Kommandant, but if that is inconvenient—”

“Nein, I should arrive back at the ghetto by then.”

“See that all is ready, Colonel,” the general said, his tone more sober than before. “I’ll arrive with the delegation on Thursday morning, eight o’clock sharp. That way the Red Cross will see everything fresh.” Surprisingly his mouth curved into a rueful grin. “I trust by then you and your bride will be in some condition to greet us, eh?” He held up his glass one more time. “To your future.”

The others raised their glasses, echoing the sentiment. For the first time in a long while, Aric allowed himself to hope. Tomorrow he would marry Stella. By Thursday night she would be well on her way safely to Switzerland. His bride . . .

Tightness edged his throat as he too lifted his glass. “To the future.”

 29 

She sent clothes for him to put on instead of his sackcloth. . . .

Esther 4:4

W
EDNESDAY
, M
ARCH
8, 1944

W
atery morning light seeped in through the kitchen window’s sparkling panes, illuminating the shriveled lump of a man who sat on the footstool and faced her.

He was like a stranger to Stella. Bruised shadows hung beneath his eyes, and his skin wore the sickly, yellow cast of jaundice. She mourned the sight of him, ravaged more by hunger and exposure than Captain Hermann’s abuse. There was a time when his face had been ruddy, his eyes and mouth creased with laugh lines from smiling too often at her childhood antics.

“You may start anytime, Fräulein. No doubt you are eager to prepare for your own wedding.”

The general’s annoyed tone sounded from the kitchen doorway. Corporal Martin stood beside him. “I leave you to your efforts while I go and speak with your future husband.”

Stella glimpsed her uncle’s shocked expression. “I will do my very best, Herr General.”

“Let’s hope it is good enough.” He departed on that subtle
warning, while the corporal moved to position himself behind Morty.

Stella continued to study her uncle . . . or what remained of him. Beside her on the tiled counter lay pressed powder, grease paint, brushes—a magician’s bag of tricks that would hopefully transform him from the general’s “train wreck” into a healthy, happy Jew suitable for parading in front of the Red Cross.

Reaching for the foundation paint, she noticed her hands shook. Why? Hadn’t she become an expert at covering up the truth?

Yesterday she’d worked into the night typing deportation lists for her masters and sending “undesirable Jews” to their graves. Pretending to be something she wasn’t so as to eat good food and sleep in a soft bed. Falling so far from grace as to love a man who would abandon Joseph to monsters . . .

“Did I hear Herr General say that you are to be married, Fräulein?”

Stella turned at her uncle’s quietly spoken question.

“You will not speak, Jew!” Martin raised the butt of his pistol to strike him.

“Stop!” Stella threw up a hand. “Do you think to make my task even more difficult?”

She raised a brow at Morty. In an airy tone she said, “Let the Jew talk. It might be entertaining.”

The corporal’s only response was to scowl. Retreating to the stove, he stared out the window.

“Are you . . . to be married, then?” Her uncle’s gravelly voice faltered.

“Hold still.” Ignoring his question, she applied foundation beneath his bruised eyes. Her touch lingered against his skin, hoping to convey to him what she dared not speak.

At five years old, Stella had often played alone in the storeroom of her uncle’s metalwork shop. One time in particular she managed to climb—then topple off—several stacked crates of tools and split her head open on a crowbar lying next to them.

Morty had scooped her up in his arms; through a haze of pain she’d seen his strong face, taut and pale as she bled profusely from the gash on her head. His deep voice had soothed her with soft words as he ran with her the entire four blocks to Dr. Kerr’s office on the
Tattersallstrasse
.

Stella’s throat worked, along with her fingers. Now her uncle needed the soft words; he needed her to make his world right again. But she could do nothing.

She concentrated on her task, too ashamed to look him in the eye. “Herr Kommandant wants me to marry him,” she said at last. “But I’m not certain—”

“I would think a woman foolish to pass up such an opportunity.”

Stella glanced at him. “So you agree . . . ?” She turned to Martin. “Fetch me another hand towel from the Schrank in the dining room.”

“I cannot leave the prisoner alone with you.”

“Yes, Corporal, you can.” She eyed him steadily, knowing her threat over him would eventually lose its power. “The cabinet is in plain sight of the doorway.” She nodded toward the opening. “Watch him from there, if you like.”

Martin swore under his breath as he crossed the kitchen and went to the cabinet. When Stella heard him rummaging through drawers, she whispered to her uncle, “Herr Kommandant also wants to send me to Switzerland tomorrow night with the Red Cross.”

“Go!” Morty’s features hardened, and for a sweet moment Stella felt like that child of long ago, receiving one of his parental lectures. “You must stay safe”—his gaze bored into hers—“above all other considerations.”

Martin returned with the towel. Stella wiped her hands, then began to apply powder to Morty’s face. Her uncle closed his eyes, leaning slightly as if to fully absorb his contact with her.

She whispered, “It is difficult.”

“You can do it.” He opened his eyes, and his mouth curved upward. “Keep faith—”

“I can’t keep what I don’t have.”

Stella ignored his stricken look. Grabbing the last of her magic tricks—a tin of rouge—she dusted pink powder onto his cheeks and face with a horsetail brush. Morty’s pallid features had transformed into a guise of glowing good health. “There. We’re finished.”

She searched his face, scrutinizing each feature. The general had made it clear that he would order her uncle onto the train if she failed.

“Fräulein, would you mind refolding my handkerchief?” Morty reached for the wrinkled wad of cloth in his left breast pocket. “I fear I’ve made a mess of it.”

Stella took the handkerchief—and felt the crisp note within. Glancing at Martin, she was relieved to see him inspecting the contents of the kitchen cupboards.

“This one is stained. You can have mine.” Without missing a beat, she stuffed the handkerchief with his message into the pocket of her wool jacket and produced another lace-edged cloth from inside her right sleeve. She tucked it neatly into his breast pocket. “Now you look splendid,” she said softly.

“Thank you.” His aged, brown eyes glistened with emotion. “I wish you a happy marriage, Fräulein.” He reached to touch her hand, but didn’t. “My maideleh,” he whispered.

Stella’s eyes burned.
I love you too
, tatteh
.

The heavy thud of jackboots approaching drew her attention. As Aric entered with the general, Stella bristled. They hadn’t spoken since she’d learned of his intent to send Joseph to Auschwitz.

“So tell me, does he need his train ticket, after all?” the general asked.

Stella pursed her lips as he strode forward to stand over her uncle. His dark eyes narrowed in scrutiny. When he shook his
head, scowling, she blurted, “Please, Herr General, I . . . I am not finished!”

She made a grab for the face powder on the counter; it clattered to the floor, along with the tin of rouge. Stella dropped to her knees, frantic to retrieve the only magic that could save her uncle.

“I compliment you, Fräulein,” the general said at last, his grudging tone at odds with his smile as he extended a hand to assist her. “This Jew looks like he just returned from a week’s holiday on
Bodensee
, eh?”

Stella rose and leaned against the counter for support. “Danke, Herr General.”

“I trust you can repeat this process tomorrow morning before the Red Cross arrives?” When she nodded, he turned to Morty. “Fräulein has given you a second chance, Jew. One you don’t deserve. Have you memorized what you are to say when the Swiss question you?”

Morty immediately rose from his stool. “Jawohl, Herr General.”

“And the consequence if you don’t?”

Morty hesitated, then nodded.

“Then I am off to Prague.” The general turned to Aric. “You will see me out.”

“Of course. Corporal, take this man back to the ghetto.”

Martin shoved at Morty with the muzzle of his gun. “Move.”

Stella and her uncle exchanged a last glance before he left the kitchen.

“Herr General wishes the letter you typed for him yesterday to be posted this morning. When the corporal returns, he can take it.”

She turned to Aric and nodded stiffly. His mouth compressed into a thin line as he eyed her for a second longer. He then swung around to follow the general out.

Collapsing onto the stool, she felt the weight of Morty’s words press on her. He wanted her to marry and flee to Switzerland. Abandon both him and Joseph, the children. Aric . . .

In her heart Stella still loved him, though now it felt more like an affliction, some rare disease without a cure. Aric would have let them send Joseph on the train if not for her intervention. She didn’t think she could ever forgive him for that.

The kitchen was quiet. Empty. Stella double-checked the door before withdrawing Morty’s note from her pocket.

“Fräulein?”

She almost fell off the stool in her haste to hide the message back in her jacket.

The red-haired boy, Simon, stood in the archway. She let out a shaky breath. “Yes?”

He walked to her, one small fist outstretched. “I found these in the back room. Can I keep them?” His hand opened to reveal a half-dozen colored glass beads. Marbles . . .

A lump rose in her throat as she crouched before the boy. Stella knew she shouldn’t get close to him; he wouldn’t last long in this place. “Where are your parents, Simon?”

He pointed a stubby finger toward the front door.

The ghetto. At least they were alive. “How old are you?”

“Six.” He eyed her openly for the first time. “How old are you?”

You should never ask a lady that
question. . . .
Stella blinked hard. “Why don’t you go play with those marbles upstairs?” she finally managed.

A smile erased his worried look, and he dashed from the kitchen. Stella rose and trudged in the direction of the library. Later, in the privacy of her own room, she would read Morty’s message. For now, she had the general’s letter to post, then an absurd wedding to consider, and tomorrow . . . ?

She couldn’t imagine leaving behind those she loved, yet she would be safe in Switzerland with Aric’s name, his money . . . and freedom.

The temptation seemed too tantalizing to resist.