For Such a Time (3 page)

He seemed preoccupied staring out the window. His head bobbed slightly with the car’s motion. Perhaps he planned the first execution of Jews at his new concentration camp. Or decided on Consequences with which to abuse her people first, like the SS guards at Dachau.

Her tormentors had invented many such Consequences. One particularly sadistic sport, which Stella had likened to a game of
Katz und Maus
, involved the guards acting like sly felines as they waited for a prisoner to cross the assembly grounds. After sufficiently torturing their “Maus,” what remained was carted off to the Krematorium—sometimes dead, sometimes not.

Stella knotted the scarf in her hands. What would her Consequence be if she didn’t type fast enough or she misconstrued one of the colonel’s dictated letters? Mrs. Bernstein had reprimanded her often enough about her shorthand—

“The worst is over, Fräulein. Relax.” The colonel studied her as he nudged her back against the seat. “Are you warm enough?”

Stella nodded. Another lie, but he would hardly care that her months of shoveling snow trenches at Dachau had left a chill that refused to go away.

“Get some rest. We’ll be home in a few hours.”

Home . . . Leaving behind the lofty slopes to descend the mountains into Czechoslovakia, Stella looked out at the patchwork swells of white amidst evergreens that swept past the car. She was reminded of the quilt she’d made, a surprise birthday gift for her uncle. That was before the Nazis destroyed it along with the rest of their possessions—before they took Morty away.

Lord, why don’t you hear me? Why have
you taken away my joy?

Anger battled her exhaustion with the drowsing lull of the car’s motion. Home was a place that, even if she lived, would never be the same.

“Wake up,
Meine Süsse
.”

A deep voice beckoned her toward consciousness.
My sweet . . .

Stella’s lashes fluttered open. Moonlight flooded the back seat of the car. She blinked and turned her head to stare out the window.

Nightfall replaced the day’s dingy sun; the sky now seemed as dark and unfathomable as her future. Only the moon animated the Ceaseless White, bringing into sharp focus the barbed wire and searchlights of Dachau. . . .

“Nein!” she screamed and launched forward in the seat. Blood pounded in her ears as dark spots crowded her vision. It had all been a cruel trick—

“Breathe!”

Rough hands forced her head down between her knees. Voices buzzed against the roaring pulse in her brain.

“. . . do you understand? You’re safe!” The colonel’s words finally penetrated her fear. “We’ve arrived at Theresienstadt.”

Not Dachau
. Stella’s breathing slowed. The pain in her chest eased. She tried to raise her head, but he held her still. “Did you hear me? You will not be afraid. This is your new home.”

She moved her neck in an effort to nod.
“Ja,”
she gasped.

He released her. She eased back against the seat, feeling light-headed and vulnerable. She instinctively drew away from him.

“You act as if I would bite.” His voice held a trace of mockery. “Anyway, I prefer a meatier dish. Perhaps once you’ve been properly fed?”

Stella hugged herself while his tasteless attempt at humor hung in the air.

Sergeant Grossman opened their door.

“Enough. Come.” The colonel got out first, then gestured to her. Before she could reach for the soggy slippers, he pulled her from the car into his arms.

She stared back toward the barbed wire and glaring searchlights that had frightened her. Beyond the cordoned-off section
rose a fortress, high and formidable. Were the prisoners inside? The stronghold didn’t look like a concentration camp; no sentries marching, no barking dogs. The place seemed deserted.

“Well, Fräulein, will it suit you?”

Stella tensed before she realized the colonel wasn’t looking at the fortress but at a lovely two-story brick house directly ahead. Pointed tips like sharp teeth rose from the picket fence surrounding the yard. “I’m to live . . . here?”

“Would you rather live over there?” He angled his chin toward the fortress.

“Nein!” She had an inkling of what lay beyond those walls: deprivation and incarceration, two conditions she’d gladly forgo to live in this charming house.

“Then I trust you’ll behave yourself.” But his tone held no threat as he carried her toward the house.

They had reached the latticed gate to the yard when a man’s crisp voice sounded behind them, “Heil Hitler, Herr Kommandant.”

The colonel swung around to confront two soldiers garbed in the black uniform of the SS. Like a pair of stout oaks laid bare to the cold, they stood dark and rigid before their commandant.

“Ah, Captain Hermann. I trust my camp is still in one piece?”

“
Jawohl
, Herr Kommandant,” said the officer who had spoken. “Only a few troublemakers.” The captain’s expression remained cold, impassive. “Sergeant Koch and I handled the situation.”

Beside him, the sergeant grinned, his gold-capped front tooth gleaming in the moonlight.

Hermann turned his icy stare on Stella. A chill grazed her nape as she realized she’d left the red wig in the car. “You’ve captured a runaway Jew, Herr Kommandant?” he asked with a smirk.

“Nein, Captain.” The strong arms that held her tensed. “A secretary.”

“With all due respect, she looks like a J—”

“She’s not, Captain.” The colonel’s tone held an edge. “Merely a victim of circumstance. You must trust me on this . . . or do you doubt my loyalty to the Reich?”

“Of course not, Herr Kommandant!”

“
Gut
.” He kicked open the latticed gate with a polished boot. “If there’s nothing else . . . ?”

“Nein, Herr Kommandant,” the captain said, and he and the sergeant saluted.

The colonel turned and continued with Stella along the shoveled walk toward the front door. She glanced over his shoulder at the pair still at the gate. Even in the moonlight she could see their contempt. Every female instinct in her recoiled as she watched Hermann’s harsh expression turn deliberate, covetous—

“Are you afraid I’ll drop you, or do you try to strangle me?”

Her gaze turned back to collide with the colonel’s amused look, and she realized her arms were wrapped tightly around his neck. Blushing, she loosened her grip. “Herr Kommandant, I . . .”

The front door burst open, spilling golden light onto the porch. A scrawny boy stood at the threshold, a yellow
Mogen Dovid
star sewn to his blue jacket. He couldn’t be more than seven or eight years old.

Anna’s age.
Stella sucked in a breath and shoved away the memory.

The boy eyed her curiously as he doffed his overlarge brown tweed cap and stepped back to let them enter. “
Guten
Abend
, Herr Kommandant.”

“Good evening, Joseph.”

The colonel’s tone held genuine warmth, which surprised Stella. He crossed the threshold into the foyer before releasing her to stand beside him. Her toes sank into a thick Aubusson carpet, the luxuriant fibers soothing her raw feet.

“Come, stand by the fire.”

Loath to move from the spot, Stella nonetheless followed him into the main living room. A blaze crackled in the hearth, and
its welcome heat raised gooseflesh along her skin. The smell of fresh-baked bread wafted into the room, and she felt a sudden, ravenous hunger. Cramps seized her belly all the way to her throat, saliva flooding her mouth with such force she had to swallow. She took a deep breath to stifle her anxiety. Would she disgrace herself at his table?

“Joseph, ask Helen to prepare an extra plate for supper.”

The boy, having taken the colonel’s cane and briefcase from Sergeant Grossman at the door, set them near the hearth and disappeared into the kitchen.

“I’ll get you a chair.” With only a few long strides, the colonel crossed the living room to pluck a heavy leather armchair from the foyer and carry it back to the hearth. “Sit.”

She complied and again wondered at his need for the cane. He seemed fit enough.

The colonel shed his greatcoat, then assumed an imposing stance beside her. He stared into the fire, their communal silence broken only by the pop and crackle of orange flames licking over fresh logs.

Stella turned to look up at him openly. Without the heavy coat he was still a broad-shouldered man. Decorations littered his tailored black uniform; among the rows of medals and ribbons covering the area over his heart, he also wore the highly distinguished Knight’s Cross.

She quickly shifted her focus back to the fireplace. The rare commendation was given only to officers with exceptional valor in battle. Morty too had received a Knight’s Cross—the most coveted of all, the Grand Cross. He’d earned the prestigious medal during the first Great War when he’d fought for Germany. The same country that now turned its back on him because of his Jewish blood.

Fear and resentment flooded her. Had the colonel received his commendations for true valor . . . or for killing Jews? A man of his size and strength could easily kill someone like her.

“There is a study that adjoins the library, which serves as my workplace.”

Stella schooled her thoughts as he pointed to a set of double doors off the living room. “You should find everything you need at the desk I’ve installed there. If you require anything else, let me know. Breakfast is at seven each morning. Work will commence at eight.” He gave her a sharp look. “Miss either one and you’ll discover the limits of my good nature.

“Weekends are your free days. You will of course be restricted to the immediate house. With an armed escort you may visit the woods at the back of the property.”

He reached to trail a finger across the blond stubble at her scalp. “Only until you put on weight and your hair grows out a bit more. It’s for your protection. We can’t risk a mistake.”

No hint of cruelty colored his voice, which made the danger he spoke of even more real. She hugged her waist and nodded.

“Joseph will show you to your room upstairs.” He signaled the boy returning from the kitchen. “I’m sure you’d like to . . . freshen up before supper.”

Stella glanced around at the colonel’s beautiful home before staring down at her bloodied feet. She’d soiled his expensive carpet. “Of course, Herr Kommandant,” she whispered.

“Schnell, Fräulein. Supper is ready and I am starved.”

She refused to look at him as she struggled out of the comfortable chair and walked to where Joseph waited by the stairs.

“Fifteen minutes, Fräulein Muller. Any longer and I’ll come after you myself, because you
will
eat. I need an important letter sent to Berlin in the morning and I won’t have you fainting from hunger in the middle of my dictation.”

Stella turned at the colonel’s good-natured threat. His humor and consideration threw her off-balance. It also bothered her that when his features relaxed, he was a handsome man. She preferred to maintain her view of him as the grim-faced killer whose presence alone sent armies running in the opposite direction.

She finally followed the boy up the carpeted steps, assailed by new emotions she wasn’t prepared to deal with. Except guilt—that heavy weight threatened to smother her. A warm house, delicious-smelling food, and a place to sleep while others died in the cold.

The colonel had told her his reason for rescuing her—that he needed a secretary. But once she no longer resembled a prisoner, would he allow her to leave?

And in the meantime, could she forget who he was? What his kind had done to her?

Never.

 3 

He assigned to her . . . the best place in the harem.

Esther 2:9

I
t was the loveliest room she’d ever seen.

Stella leaned against the doorjamb and marveled at the profusion of ivory lace curtains draped across an elongated window above the single bed. Matching ivory pillows sprawled against a blue chenille coverlet, while beside the bed sat a mahogany nightstand; a lavish Girandole crystal lamp rested against its polished surface, along with a small book and an exquisite clock of inlaid pearl. An armoire in the same honey-toned wood stood along the opposite wall.

Crossing the threshold, she tossed her borrowed coat onto the bed. A framed watercolor beside the armoire caught her attention: A young girl in a red, beribboned straw hat lay in the tall grass of a sunny meadow. Yellow pansies, vibrant against a blue stream, surrounded her.

The picture seemed quiet and peaceful, blissfully silent. Unlike the noisy, crowded Block at Dachau where Stella and other female prisoners had been crammed together like a tin of sardines. She breathed a wistful sigh. Solitude was a luxury she’d once taken for granted.

Moving deeper into the room, Stella spied a narrow door off the bedroom—her own personal bath! She rushed inside and stood in the middle of the small, tiled room. How long had it been since she’d bathed in a real tub? Or slept in a feathery bed?

Was it a trick? Why would God now tempt her with hope . . . after all she’d been through? Yet she couldn’t deny the feeling, as alien and vague as her freedom.

Stella returned to the bedroom. The boy still hovered at the door. “You’re Joseph?”

He stared at her, then dropped his gaze and nodded.

“How old are you?”

His face shot up. Long brown lashes lowered slightly. “Ten.”

Older than Anna.
Stella blocked the memory as swiftly as it came. The boy’s clothes were clean but worn and hung loosely on his small frame. He seemed so fragile; no wonder she’d thought him younger at first.

She’d also failed to note his missing right ear.

“How old are you, Fräulein?”

Stella found a smile, despite her cracked lips. “You should never ask a lady that question.”

His olive cheeks bloomed with color.

“Twenty-three,” she relented. “How long have you lived here, Joseph?”

“A year—in the ghetto, anyway. I only been with Herr Kommandant about a month.”

“Does he treat you well?” Stella tried not to stare at the bloody scab where his ear had been. If the colonel did this to him, then her own fate would surely be worse.

“I like it here. The work’s easy and I get to eat all the
Käsespätzle
I want. I even got my own bed.”

Maybe the colonel hadn’t hurt the child. Stella thought of the two soldiers she’d just seen outside. Her heart raced as she struggled to recall their names . . . a captain . . . Hermann?
Yes—and Sergeant Koch. Easing out a breath, she asked the boy, “What about the other Nazis?”

His features tensed, and she closed the distance between them. “Listen to me, Joseph,” she said as she crouched to his level. “I know the cruelty they can inflict. I give you my word I won’t repeat what you tell me. But I must know . . . what to expect here.”

His intelligent brown eyes studied her with an intensity beyond his tender years. “You’re Jewish, aren’t you, Fräulein?”

“Nein!” She reared back, her reaction automatic, borne of fear, rehearsed a thousand times as Morty had taught her. And they hadn’t even asked . . .

She stood with others
at the Mannheim checkpoint, regretting her decision to leave the
safety of Marta’s Heidelberg apartment and return to search
for her uncle. The place was crawling with Nazis. A
fat Gestapo man moved up close behind her in line
, his comrades shouting encouragement. Stella gasped when his filthy wet
mouth grazed her neck, the rankness of stale beer and
tobacco on his breath. When he began to touch her
, she lost control. Like a feral cat unleashed, she turned
and attacked him before several pairs of hands dragged her
away. Her satisfaction at the bloody welts she’d raked
along his face exploded into pain with the first blow
; the second knocked her flat against the ground.

Afterward he
’d grabbed up her scattered papers and marched with them
to the checkpoint table, stamping them in red with the
damning word that bought her passage on the next train
to Hell . . .

“I’m no Jew,” she told the boy. “Please don’t say that again.”

Hurt flashed in his eyes. Stella felt shamed by her defection, as though she’d left him alone to the fate of their race. Yet there was no choice but to lie; she wouldn’t burden him with that kind of secret. She couldn’t risk another . . .

She offered him a contrite smile. “I’d still like to be your friend, Joseph. I’ll need one in this place.”

His features brightened with a child’s ready acceptance. “I’ll have to teach you the rules,” he said. “The first is, stay away from Captain Hermann. He hits the prisoners with his fists.” The boy cocked his head. “And you look like a prisoner, Fräulein.”

Stella flushed. “Anything else I should know?”

“There’s Sergeant Koch and Lieutenant Brucker. They just like to hurt people.” His gaze skittered to the floor. “Especially the older ones who can’t defend themselves.”

“And the children, Joseph?” she whispered, glancing at his angry scab.

He wouldn’t look at her. “Children too.”

Stella swayed as she crouched against the floor; images exploded in her mind.
Anna’
s sweet face . . . brightest, most beautiful star at Dachau’s
makeshift school . . . Anna . . . her own precious child after Bella Horowitz
died . . . Anna . . . small, trembling hands . . . holding up a piece of
cloth, a blouse to cover Stella’s nakedness as the
guards dragged her toward the shooting pit . . . Anna . . . those little
hands dragged behind Stella . . . an explosion of gunfire . . .

“Noooo!” she cried, pulling the surprised boy into her arms. Grief overwhelmed her as she held him close, the way she would never again hold Anna; offering comfort and needing to be comforted . . .

His small body stiffened an instant, then clung to her with unspoken ferocity. The two were strangers, yet in that moment they were more closely linked in their desire for human touch than any bond of blood.

Stella pressed her cheek to the unruly brown curls at the side of his head, so baby soft against her skin. “Where are your parents?” she finally managed to ask.

“Dead,” he whispered. “Mama and Papa got real sick while we were at Neuengamme.”

Cold crept along her spine. “Neuengamme?”

“A work camp. Near Hamburg, I think.”

“How did you get here?”

“Herr Van dee Moss said I could be his assistant. He was a famous painter in Amsterdam, so they let us both come to Theresienstadt. He died last summer.”

The child’s words trailed off against her shoulder. Stella could only hug him again.

He finally raised his face to her. “Will you pray for my mama and papa . . . even though they were Jews?”

How could she tell him God had abandoned their people? “I’ll pray,” she lied, holding back her bitterness.

“On my honor, I’ll look out for you while you are here.”

Stella’s eyes burned at his earnest expression. Suddenly he seemed much older than ten. “Thank you, Joseph. I’m proud to know a man who still values honor.”

He flushed at her praise. “Please, we must go. Herr Kommandant is waiting.”

Stella rose from the bed, nauseated at the prospect of returning downstairs. “Give me a minute.” She then went to the bathroom to wash most of the dirt and dried blood from her body.

Downstairs, glassware and silver clinked as they arrived at the archway connecting the kitchen and dining areas. A silver-haired woman wearing a bright green neckerchief with her black-and-white service uniform bustled back and forth between the two rooms.

She halted before Stella and then raised a questioning brow at the boy.

“Helen,” Joseph explained, “meet Fräulein Muller.” To Stella, he said, “She doesn’t speak, but she hears real good.”

“Helen.” Stella forced a smile and offered a hand in greeting. The other woman made no move to reciprocate and merely eyed her with derision.

A water kettle on the stove whistled. Smells of sauerkraut, fried onions, and something rancid seized Stella’s nostrils as she waited with mounting humiliation. Only when she started to
withdraw her hand did the stout woman brusquely wipe her own on the apron and thrust it at her. Helen didn’t smile but merely jerked her head in acknowledgment and returned to her tasks.

Stella’s face burned. She raised a self-conscious hand to the stubble at her scalp.

“Don’t worry.” Joseph squeezed her arm. “She’s like that with everyone.”

Stella eyed him dubiously. She’d bet money the woman didn’t treat the colonel that way.

Helen swept back by them long enough to tug at a lock of Joseph’s hair. She pointed to the dining room.

“Come, Fräulein. Supper is ready. I’ll fetch Herr Kommandant.” He pulled Stella through the archway into the dining room before disappearing around the corner.

Helen might not be personable, but she set a beautiful table. Stella eyed the snowy linen tablecloth. Two complete settings of silver-rimmed china were placed at either end, while a milk-glass vase of holly, ripe with crimson berries, stood in the center. A pair of beeswax candles burned along either side, dancing light off polished brass holders.

A basket of fresh bread sat alongside the centerpiece. Stella touched the rim of the basket, willfully resisting temptation as she gazed into the flames. Similar candles once gleamed in her own home on the eve of
Shabbat.
She recalled the reverent anticipation as her uncle made
Kiddush
over their wine, declaring holiness to God’s day of rest. Afterward he would uncover and bless the
Challah
, bread that God had provided them in the desert—

“Fräulein, you will sit here.”

The colonel called to her from the opposite end of the table. Stella snatched her hand away. This wasn’t Challah or Shabbat. Not in the Jew Killer’s house.

Overwhelmed by a sudden avalanche of anger, she marched toward the chair he held for her. Nazis were the worst kind
of thieves. They took everything, from the rabbi’s
Tallit
—his prayer shawl—to the last
matzo
wrapper, until nothing of Jewishness remained. They had destroyed synagogues, families, lives.
Faith . . .

“Have you met Helen?”

The colonel leaned to push in her chair. Stella stiffened, assailed by his nearness, the spiced scent of his cologne. She glanced at the aproned woman carrying in a water pitcher and glasses. “Ja, Herr Kommandant,” she whispered.

The colonel took his place at the head of the table. “Helen is not only my housekeeper, but she is also my best-kept secret.”

His remark drew both women’s attention. “She’s the finest cook in all of Europe. I’ve considered sending her to the Front, armed with her baked
Apfelstrudel
. The smell alone would entice a legion of soldiers to follow her into battle.”

Helen’s cheeks flushed as she served them drinks.

“She won’t be leading battalions, however.” He turned to Stella. “You will be her newest target, Fräulein—pastries, pies, dumplings, whatever it takes. We’ll start you out with smaller portions, but I want you healthy as soon as possible.”

Why?
Stella wanted to ask. Even Helen looked surprised. Yet the housekeeper merely met his glance and nodded before leaving the room.

“You do understand your part in this arrangement?”

Stella took great pains to smooth her napkin over her lap. “Eating.”

“And . . . ?”

She felt heat crawl up her neck. “Keeping it down.”

“Ah, your honesty, if not your enthusiasm, is refreshing.”