For Such a Time (29 page)

 34 

Then Esther sent this reply . . . “And if I perish, I perish.”

Esther 4:15–16

I
find I’m always entertained by coincidence. What are the odds, do you think, with thousands of Jews scattered across Europe, that you’d end up in the same camp as your”—Hermann scanned the letter—“father, is it?”

Hadassah stood before his desk as he held up one of her uncle’s letters from the ghetto. It was the note she’d dropped in the bathroom. The page was still wrinkled and wet, the mimeographed advertisement on the back now a blue smear.

Unfortunately, Morty’s penciled words on the other side were clearly legible. She didn’t doubt Hermann had already destroyed the other note, the one incriminating him in Koch and Brucker’s murderous scheme.

“‘Dearest daughter.’” Hermann’s hazel eyes narrowed on her. “Who is this man? The old Jew you keep trying to save?” He reached for the burlap sack on his desk and withdrew a couple of the white cards. “The writing looks to be the same.” He held up one card, then another beside the note. “Is Morty Benjamin your father, Sarah?”

Hadassah answered honestly, “Nein, Herr Captain.”

“We shall see.” He leaned back in his chair, a sneer touching the edges of his mouth. “So, does Aric von Schmidt know he’s been playing house with a Jew?”

Hadassah’s hands fisted at her sides. She refused to acknowledge him, glaring instead at the picture of Hitler mounted on the wall above Hermann’s head. She wore no coat, only her houndstooth suit and the fur-lined boots Aric had given her. A shiver coursed through her as the room’s chill overrode the popping oil furnace in the corner.

How foolish to have kept Morty’s notes! Now her sentimentality would get them both killed . . .

“Nothing to say?” Hermann rose from his chair and moved around the desk to face her. His gloved hand reached to stroke her cheek. “A quiet woman is the best kind.”

Hadassah resisted an impulse to shrink from his touch.

“You should have chosen me the night of the Kommandant’s party. I could have shown you what you were missing. Perhaps I may still.”

He edged closer to prove his point. Stella stifled a scream.

“Life in the ghetto doesn’t have to be bad for you, Sarah.” His breath reeked of stale cigarettes. “I can even overlook the tattoo. I saw it, you know, earlier, while you were in your room. Come and be mine,” he murmured against her cheek, “and I’ll even give you extra rations.”

Unable to endure another moment of his repugnant speech, she tilted her head to glower at him with such loathing it made her limbs shake. “I would rather breathe the gas at Auschwitz than wake up to your face each morning,” she ground out.

“As you wish!” He drew back and belted her across the cheek. Hadassah’s head snapped to the side. Blinking against the pain, she felt blood flooding the inside of her mouth.

“Sonntag!”

The young corporal quickly materialized. “Return to the
house and get Fräulein’s typewriter. Take it up to the records office.”

Once the soldier dashed off, Hermann told her, “You’ll type a supplemental to the manifest. It will contain all of the names you neglected to list—including those from last Friday. The train will load and leave tonight.”

Her shock mingled with a vague sense of dread. “The cards . . . I destroyed them, Herr Captain. I don’t remember the names.”

“Then you’d better hope they come forward on their own, or that your
father
remembers, because for each missing name, a new one—a child, I think—will be chosen to take its place.”

“You can’t!” Hadassah gasped, horrified. “Please, I’ll . . . I’ll do anything!”

She moistened her lips, ignoring her aching mouth and the nausea churning inside her. She touched his sleeve. “Anything . . .”

He shoved her so hard that she fell backward onto the floor. “And I’ve decided,” he said through clenched teeth, “that when I wake up in the morning, I would rather stare into the face of a bleating
Schaf
than a filthy Jew.”

From the doorway of the ghetto’s kitchen, Morty stared down the cobbled street toward the building that housed Captain Hermann’s office.

“Some salvation,” Yaakov called out behind him. “After those gullible fools turned themselves in this morning, the guards punished them anyway.”

Morty kept his back to the group seated at the kitchen table.

“They rounded them up in the Marktplatz and beat them with clubs—as a warning to others,” Yaakov continued. “And still they must go on today’s train.”

“Did you see what they did to my daughter?” Mrs. Brenner’s high-pitched voice quavered between rage and hysteria. “Did
you see the marks on Clara’s sweet face when they got through with her? Their dogs tore at the hem of her dress, then her coat sleeves until nothing but shredded cloth lay at her feet. Now she has nothing warm to wear when she goes . . .” Her voice caught and she cleared her throat before she whispered, “And just look at that poor boy.”

Morty turned then. Joseph lay cocooned in blankets on a bench beside the brazier. Even in the kitchen’s dim light, his sleeping face revealed a wealth of bruises.

“I heard one of the soldiers tell the deportees they must give their names to Morty’s maideleh so she can type the new list.” Yaakov glanced at Morty. “Is she still in there?”

Morty jerked a nod and then returned to his vigil. Dread gnawed at him. He imagined what Hermann was doing to her and fought the impulse to rush down the street, break in the door, and confront the devil. Of course, he would only get himself shot for the effort, and Hadassah would soon need his comfort, what little he could offer her.

His mind flashed back on the scene of her being led by soldiers from the elegant brick house. She’d worn no coat or hat. In the gray winter light her short blond curls had seemed almost white. Morty had no idea why she’d been brought to the ghetto, only that her misfortune was the result of some convoluted logic that defied all but a Nazi’s mind.

“It seems your vision was no more than a dream, old friend,” Yaakov muttered. “Everything has gotten worse—except the food.”

Morty glanced around in time to see Yaakov shove a biscuit into his mouth. “She can’t help us now,” he said around his chewing. “In fact, I’ll be surprised if they don’t make her go to Auschwitz, too.”

“She should go,” Mrs. Brenner piped up bitterly. “If my Clara has to go, it’s only right she go, too—”

“Silence!” Morty snapped, before he swung his attention back
to the street. One of the guards, Corporal Martin, had emerged from the building with Hadassah and now led her toward the square. Morty left his position by the door and followed them. When they mounted the steps and passed beneath a mock sign that read
BANK
, he realized they were going up to his own office.

Morty shadowed them inside and up another flight of stairs. They entered the small room, which held a table that served as his desk, along with a straight-backed chair and a desk lamp that was missing its shade. A dented brown filing cabinet stood in one corner; it contained all the prisoner records and other paper work he was required to provide.

“Can I help you?” Though he maintained a polite tone with Corporal Martin, anger coursed through him. He’d noticed the angry swelling around Hadassah’s right cheek.

Martin ignored him, looking just beyond his shoulder.

“Out of my way, Jude,” barked a voice behind Morty. Corporal Sonntag pushed his way past with a typewriter. After dumping it unceremoniously onto the table, both soldiers departed, leaving Morty alone with his niece.

Hadassah flew into his arms. She squeezed him so hard that his ribs ached. “Ah, my baby girl, how wonderful it feels to hold you again.” He didn’t care that his voice shook. He embraced her a long moment before finally, reluctantly, setting her away from him.

“Now, let me have a good look at you without the worry of getting clouted in the head.” He was relieved to note that except for being a little paler and thinner, and the welt at her cheek, she seemed healthy and whole.

“Joseph?”

“He’s sleeping right now.”

“Please,
tatteh
, bring him to me. I need to know he’s all right.”

Morty breathed a heavy sigh and nodded. “He’s been roughed up”—he held up a hand when she made a distressed sound—“but his bruises will heal quickly. He’s young.”

He scowled at the angry mark on her cheek. “Hermann, that
chazzerei
, he did this to you, didn’t he?”

“Perhaps,” called a voice from the door. “And once I translate that Jew gibberish, I imagine you’ll have one to match. So . . . father and daughter reunited at last.”

Hermann entered the room. Morty shot a glance at Hadassah. “There wasn’t time,” she whispered. “They found the notes. And your Grand Cross.” She turned to glare at the captain.

“I retrieved these from your files. A carbon copy of yesterday’s manifest.” Hermann held up a stack of papers. “Twenty-five hundred names, minus the two hundred you omitted.”

Then he withdrew from his coat pocket a packet of cards. “Here are two hundred cards from the Judenrat’s files—all children. As I said before, you will provide
all
the missing names or supply an equal number of these.” He handed Hadassah the cards along with the sheets. “I’ll be back this afternoon for the new list. Make certain the potato thief is on it. I will station one of my men outside the door to ensure you stay at your task.

“By the way, you’re fortunate my men were able to round up most of the Jews who evaded last Friday’s train—or I’d have to provide you with more cards. They should be arriving shortly to give you their information.” He smirked. “I wanted you to have a good look at them.”

Hermann turned an icy stare on Morty. “In case you think to interfere, Jew—don’t. I’ve removed your files from this office, in case you’re tempted to make substitutions for the cards I’ve already chosen. There is also your dear daughter’s safety to think about.” He flashed a malignant smile before departing from the tiny records office.

Morty uttered an oath. His niece was now more of a prisoner than he was.

———

Hadassah glimpsed her uncle’s anger. “I’m so sorry, tatteh
.
I failed you . . .”

“Hush, child.” He opened his arms, and she returned to his comforting embrace. “You didn’t fail. We can only do God’s will—”

“Then God failed!” She jerked away, fury exploding inside her. “Are you so blind? There is no salvation!”
Only this ache in my heart that won
’t go away . . .

“God did not fail.” Morty caught her up again and forced her to meet his gaze. “Man fails. He fails God. He fails his brother. Himself.” A sad smile touched his mouth. “Perhaps I expected too much from Herr Kommandant.”

Her pain intensified. “He’s no god,” she bit out. “He’s mortal, like the rest of us.”

“Then we must hope for another miracle.”

She stared at him. “Your conviction never wavers, does it? Despite everything that’s happened—the brutality, starvation, and death—you never question God.”

“And you know this for a fact?” He raised a grizzled brow at her.

“I’ve listened to your teachings since I was a child. You’ve always had your faith.”