Wildflowers of Terezin (15 page)

Hanne lay in the darkness, heart pounding, unable to sleep. With every sound she held her breath, listening. Here, a steam pipe rumbled and creaked as the heat came on in the hospital building, with its peculiar ping, ping, ping—as if it might explode at any moment.

That much sounded familiar, though the strange apartment she had moved into offered none of the same comfort, except a thin promise of safety. Despite the warmth of her wool blanket, she shivered and burrowed deeper into her hiding place, playing and replaying what most certainly could be happening outside in the city and beyond. She imagined soldiers knocking down doors all around her little country, doors identified by brass plates engraved with names like Rubenstein or Levin. Not the usual Danish names, certainly, but still no less Danish.

A breeze rustled her blackout shade, reminding her that the draft came from a window cracked wider than she had intended. She turned over, burying her face in the thin pillow, which carried the faint scent of powdered cleaning soap. She didn't want to listen, just couldn't help it. The window shade rustled even more, and she imagined someone crawling in from the courtyard outside. Only this was the third floor. Still her mind raced.

Would the soldiers see past their scam and find their way back to this apartment, a floor above and half a building away? Would they believe Ann-Grete if she told them that Hanne Abrahamsen no longer worked at Bispebjerg Hospital, no longer lived here in the nurses' apartments? Or would she change her mind and perhaps lead them back to her old apartment? Under threat of violence, Hanne would not blame her friend if she betrayed this fragile trust. Honestly, Hanne could not say what she herself might do, if roles were reversed and it was she who faced the barrel of a German rifle.She might herself crumble, too.

"It's okay, Ann-Grete," she whispered into the pillow. "I won't hold it against you."

A door slammed somewhere below, and she dug her fingernails into the edge of her blanket. This could be it. She imagined where she had left her clothes in this unfamiliar space, and wondered how long it would take her to dress if someone suddenly pounded at her door. She would not, she decided, come to the door in only a nightgown and robe. No.She would open the door fully dressed and hair combed, or they would simply have to break down the door. If that's what they wanted to do, she could do nothing to stop it.

She turned over again and sat up straight.

Breathe,
she told herself.
Slow down.

But she could not, as voices and shouts below told her that something was going on. And if they found her here in this strange apartment, would they not find the other Jews hiding in the tunnels below the hospital campus? Or worse yet, in the basement of Steffen Petersen's church? Surely someone would tell them.

She whispered a desperate prayer, and found herself repeating the words of the Hebrew traveler's prayer. She thought it strange how it came back so easily, the words, so long after the train ride she had taken with her mother, when she was twelve, and Mor had recited it aloud right there in the train station:

V'tatzilenu mi-kaf kol oyev . . .

May You rescue us from the hand of every foe, ambush along the way, and from all manner of punishments that assemble to come to earth.

She heard more shouting, sharp men's voices, obviously in German. Then heavy footsteps in a hurry, growing louder.

Barukh atah Adonai sho'me'a t'fila.

Blessed are You, Adonai, Who hears prayer.

Did He? Now Hanne heard a woman's voice, muffled but pleading, repeating words Hanne couldn't make out.And for a moment Hanne considered getting up and stepping outside to give herself up. Others should not suffer on her behalf.

Instead she found herself praying that she could disappear completely under the covers. She knew she should slip out and get dressed, but that meant she would have to turn on a light. And a light might attract attention. She could not make her legs move. She shivered uncontrollably.

And now she pulled the covers well over her head, pulling herself into a fetal position, listening and shivering.And she decided it was even worse knowing what danger approached—much worse than not knowing and simply being surprised once. She decided she would rather be ignorant of the danger, than recognize it coming closer and closer.Either way, she could do nothing to change what was happening outside her door.

"The door!" Sturmbannführer Wolfschmidt shouted to his men, then pointed at two other trucks. "You and you, take up positions around the alleyway and the back of the building.Hurry! You're late. I want no one leaving this place unless it's in front of your weapon, and then into the back of your truck."

So it would be. Wolfschmidt promised himself that he would see to every detail, no matter how insignificant it might seem to someone else. That was their problem. No one ever cared about the details the way he did. But this time, nothing would be overlooked, and no opportunity missed. As he headed for the entry he nodded back at his driver, who pulled out the thick metal bar they'd stowed behind the seats. Now he brought it with him towards the door. Details.

"They're not answering the doorbell, Herr Sturmbannführer!" A panicked
schütze
looked back at Wolfschmidt as he stepped up to the street entrance. "And our orders say to avoid—"

"Shut up and step aside, private. Your orders are what I tell you." Wolfschmidt wore the gray ashes of their orders on the soles of his boots. Didn't they know? He waved for his assistant to proceed, while the cluster of gray-suited troops hovered in position, ready to spring. They'd brought 150 troops to secure this position, which under normal circumstances would prove more than adequate.

With a hearty swing and a satisfying grinding sound of metal-upon-metal, the bar easily took out the door's lock.Wolfschmidt stepped up beside his driver before the other man could complete the break-in, kicking the door open with his own boot. Unfortunately that would leave a scuff, but that could be shined out in the morning, when this operation was all over and he'd collected enough commendations for the day. The door exploded open, slamming something inside with a satisfying crash.

"I want everyone in this building assembled in the synagogue next door," he shouted, making certain everyone around him heard him well. "Everyone, do you hear me? Immediately! You have ten minutes."

And they seemed to require all of those ten minutes, despite the fact that none of the residents of this old-age home could have put up any resistance. Nine minutes later, Wolfschmidt paced in front of the ornate podium inside the synagogue, waiting for the last of his elderly captives. None looked younger than about sixty, and the latest arrival—bound with leather straps and dragged to the front of the auditorium— might have been in her eighties or perhaps nineties. Many of these Danes seemed to live to a ripe old age. But really they were Jews, all of them, and he reminded himself of the fact.No, to him it certainly didn't matter how old they were, how weak, or how infirm. To Wolfschmidt, a Jew was a Jew, no matter which country they found themselves in.

"Why are you doing this?" The wizened old woman looked up at him with a pitiful expression, tears in her rheumy eyes.Her gnarled hands trembled as she lay on the hard tile floor, and her silver hair unfolded in a fan around her shoulders."We've done nothing to deserve such treatment."

"What is your name?" he demanded, hands on his hips.And as soon as he had asked the question, though, he regretted it—as if hearing her name spoken aloud might lend her more personality than he cared to acknowledge. He should not have asked, and it was not in their instructions or their orders to do so. But there; he'd asked her. And now she would answer, or suffer for her insubordination.

"Paikin," she whispered back, still daring to look him straight in the eye. Such an attitude would easily be modi- fied. "My name is Fru Paikin."

"Well then, Fru Paikin, you're an enemy of the Reich," he reminded her with a smirk. "Or didn't you know?"

Given her age, perhaps she was only a symbolic enemy.He would grant her that. But an enemy nonetheless. And certainly she could not refute the facts, as Wolfschmidt understood them. This time she did not try, only pressed her thin lips together and remained mute. Just as well.

On the other side of the room, an eager young
scharführer
had a Jewish man backed up to the wall, pushing him for information about this or that saboteur. Thus the sergeant had been instructed in their orders, naturally. But what those orders did not detail was that he would certainly find out nothing of value here in this place. Wolfschmidt knew this without a doubt, but still he conceded it might be prudent to make the effort—or rather, to allow the scharführer to make the effort. Let him try. But before long the old man crumpled in obvious fear beneath the
scharführer's
blows to the face and head, while Wolfschmidt looked on with approval. Yes, he decided, this might be a useful exercise for the men.