For Such a Time by Kate Breslin Page B

Cross interfering in our affairs—”
    “To see how the prisoners fare, Captain,” the colonel explained. “A reasonable enough request. Nevertheless, I’ll inspect the ghetto myself. Tomorrow.” He glanced at Stella. “You will accompany me, Fräulein Muller, and take note of any last-minute details needing attention.”
    She drew a startled breath. “Jawohl, Herr Kommandant.” Though it sickened her to hear them speak of Jews like farmers discussing workhorses, she burned with curiosity to see for herself what lay beyond those walls—without the peril of being a prisoner.
    There were still risks, of course. Jews from Mannheim might live there. Someone could recognize her . . .
    “I welcome your inspection, Herr Kommandant, but you’ll find everything in good order,” Hermann said in clipped tones. “That is why our Führer entrusted this important task to the SS alone.”
    “Did he? I was told a Wehrmacht general, Oberstgruppenführer Feldman, has been assigned as the Führer’s attaché for this inspection.”
    Irritation creased Hermann’s frozen expression. “No doubt,Herr Kommandant, our Führer wishes to enlighten the Wehrmacht on true SS efficiency.”
    “So you believe the German Army needs instruction from the SS, Captain?” The colonel reached for a helping of potatoes.
    “Come now, Herr Colonel, quit baiting your poor captain.” The major grinned. “Your years of service do you much credit, but even in your brief time with us, you must see how greatly the SS differs from Germany’s other plebeian forces?”
    “I see certain differences, Major,” the colonel conceded, cutting a wedge of cheese and offering it to Stella. “A Wehrmacht soldier, for example, fights where he is called, whether knee-deep in snow on the Russian Steppes, or in sand, marching across a North African desert. He fights other armed soldiers.”
    He flashed each man at the table a challenging smile. “Forgive my frankness, but from what I’ve observed so far, the SS draws its battle lines inside the concentration camps, fighting unarmed Jews, Catholic priests, and a handful of dethroned politicians.”
    The dining room’s warm, festive atmosphere turned chill with tension. Stella fell back against her seat, stunned. The colonel’s ridicule of the SS was only eclipsed by the startling realization he’d been a Wehrmacht soldier, just like her uncle. Did he embrace Morty’s same principles of honor, or was he like the other Nazis at the table?
    “I served in the Waffen-SS two years, Herr Colonel.” Stocky Lieutenant Neubach leaned back, arms crossed against his chest. “I fought armed men.”
    “I was at Babi Yar, Lieutenant. I saw Heydrich’s Einsatzgruppen in action.” The colonel’s tone turned to ice. “We both know what kind of men your Waffen-SS gunned down.”
    “We were once the elite guard of der Führer!” Hermann’s voice rose as he pressed his hands flat against the table. “Hand-picked, highly trained Aryans of the purest race.” He glanced to the others. “That was before Herr Reichsführer’s office started recruiting anyone who could carry a gun. Italians, Czechs—”
    “Wehrmacht castoffs, Captain?”
    Hermann’s hands slid from the table. “Herr Kommandant, I meant no insult . . .”
    “Of course not.” The colonel smiled, and Stella shivered at its lack of warmth. “Besides, it doesn’t change what we’ve become”—he met each man’s gaze—“chatelaines for the dregs of war, gentlemen. Dregs the SS created with their first camp at Dachau ten years ago.”
    “If I were to put a smell to that statement, Herr Colonel, I’d say it stank of sedition.” The major tossed his linen napkin onto his empty plate.
    “Treason, Major?” The colonel cocked an amused brow. “I sacrificed my body for Germany and have the bullet holes to prove it. The Fatherland has my allegiance.”
    He tossed down his napkin, as well. “Mine are only the sentiments of a world-weary