Wildflowers of Terezin by Robert Elmer Page B
Authors: Robert Elmer
Tags: Fiction, Historical fiction, Romance, Historical, World War; 1939-1945, War & Military, Christian fiction, Christian, Jewish, Jews, Clergy, Underground Movements, Denmark, Jews - Persecutions - Denmark, World War; 1939-1945 - Jews - Rescue - Denmark, Clergy - Denmark, World War; 1939-1945 - Underground Movements - Denmark, Jews - Denmark, Theresienstadt (Concentration Camp)
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hospital. I'm staying in another nurse's apartment, where they won't find me. We've switched identities, as a matter of fact. But I am glad of your help. And your concern."
Steffen felt his mouth gaping, unsure of what else to tell her, or how to convince her to go. The truth was, at the moment he felt a glimmer of something new—something he had not felt before and could perhaps not name. As if he had something to protect.
"We just want to be sure you're all safe," he said.
Perhaps she was right, and the Germans would not catch up to her at the hospital. And if she stayed there a while longer, surely he would see her again. That would be worth looking forward to.
Out of the corner of his eye, though, he thought he noticed a movement in the shadows.
"Fru Husted?" he said. "Margrethe?"
A door slammed at the end of the hallway and Hanne stopped as well.
"Something wrong?" she asked, and of course he didn't want to concern her.
"No, nothing. Just the janitor, I'm sure. She's always puttering around the building." He laughed. "I'm just a little jumpy. Never done this sort of thing, after all. Hiding Jewish refugees, I mean."
She looked at him with understanding in her eyes.
"We're all learning this as we go." She paused. "Thank you."
But as they hurried to catch up to Henning and the others, Steffen couldn't help looking back over his shoulder one more time. An acolyte's robe hanging from a rack in the hallway still swayed in the draft.
13
SANKT STEFAN'S KIRKE, KØBENHAVN
FRIDAY EVENING, 1 OKTOBER 1943
A winter long and dark and hard, for five cursed years,
has squeezed the land in its embrace of cold and hunger and want.
—FROM "DANMARK'S FREEDOM SONG"
S turmbannführer Karl Wolfschmidt checked his watch yet again. Eight minutes to ten. The broad-shouldered young truck driver beside him stretched his well-muscled wrestler's neck, looking straight ahead, waiting for the next command.
"Seven minutes," said Wolfschmidt, now tapping his fingertips on the metal dashboard and looking out into the darkness. Just ahead and to the right, the familiar Jewish synagogue's façade showed brightly enough to be seen even at this time of night. Adjacent to the synagogue stood the Jewish home for the aged. They would have no problem finding their way.
And yes, this operation would go smoothly, there could be no doubt. This time, the catch would be better than just an outdated Jewish community membership roster. He would see to that. What's more, Berlin would be sure to hear how well they carried out their duties tonight. They would hear how well the Sturmbannführer had led his men. He would see to that, as well.
In the darkness he couldn't read the wrinkled piece of paper folded in the breast pocket of his tunic, his orders and instructions for the operation. But he didn't need to. Instead he pulled it out and turned away from the young driver, then held the paper out the open window and up to the end of his cigarette. He blew on the orange spark. A moment later the paper burst into flames as he held it gingerly by his fingertips, watching it burn. The driver watched out of the corner of his eye but said nothing. He obviously couldn't know that Wolfschmidt had his own ideas on how to get results tonight—and that they would be better ideas than these weak "suggestions" from Berlin.
"Let's go," said Wolfschmidt, dropping the last of his burning paper to the street. Enough time waiting. Enough time talking. Time to act. He popped open his door and slapped the side of the truck three times, his signal to alert the squad of soldiers waiting inside the covered back end. He raised his voice, now that his timeline had begun. It would not matter now if anyone else heard them. It was too late for anyone to whimper for help.
"Raus!" he shouted, strutting toward the open tailgate."Out! What are you boys waiting for? A written invitation? We have work to do, and not much time to do it!"
With that
Steffen felt his mouth gaping, unsure of what else to tell her, or how to convince her to go. The truth was, at the moment he felt a glimmer of something new—something he had not felt before and could perhaps not name. As if he had something to protect.
"We just want to be sure you're all safe," he said.
Perhaps she was right, and the Germans would not catch up to her at the hospital. And if she stayed there a while longer, surely he would see her again. That would be worth looking forward to.
Out of the corner of his eye, though, he thought he noticed a movement in the shadows.
"Fru Husted?" he said. "Margrethe?"
A door slammed at the end of the hallway and Hanne stopped as well.
"Something wrong?" she asked, and of course he didn't want to concern her.
"No, nothing. Just the janitor, I'm sure. She's always puttering around the building." He laughed. "I'm just a little jumpy. Never done this sort of thing, after all. Hiding Jewish refugees, I mean."
She looked at him with understanding in her eyes.
"We're all learning this as we go." She paused. "Thank you."
But as they hurried to catch up to Henning and the others, Steffen couldn't help looking back over his shoulder one more time. An acolyte's robe hanging from a rack in the hallway still swayed in the draft.
13
SANKT STEFAN'S KIRKE, KØBENHAVN
FRIDAY EVENING, 1 OKTOBER 1943
A winter long and dark and hard, for five cursed years,
has squeezed the land in its embrace of cold and hunger and want.
—FROM "DANMARK'S FREEDOM SONG"
S turmbannführer Karl Wolfschmidt checked his watch yet again. Eight minutes to ten. The broad-shouldered young truck driver beside him stretched his well-muscled wrestler's neck, looking straight ahead, waiting for the next command.
"Seven minutes," said Wolfschmidt, now tapping his fingertips on the metal dashboard and looking out into the darkness. Just ahead and to the right, the familiar Jewish synagogue's façade showed brightly enough to be seen even at this time of night. Adjacent to the synagogue stood the Jewish home for the aged. They would have no problem finding their way.
And yes, this operation would go smoothly, there could be no doubt. This time, the catch would be better than just an outdated Jewish community membership roster. He would see to that. What's more, Berlin would be sure to hear how well they carried out their duties tonight. They would hear how well the Sturmbannführer had led his men. He would see to that, as well.
In the darkness he couldn't read the wrinkled piece of paper folded in the breast pocket of his tunic, his orders and instructions for the operation. But he didn't need to. Instead he pulled it out and turned away from the young driver, then held the paper out the open window and up to the end of his cigarette. He blew on the orange spark. A moment later the paper burst into flames as he held it gingerly by his fingertips, watching it burn. The driver watched out of the corner of his eye but said nothing. He obviously couldn't know that Wolfschmidt had his own ideas on how to get results tonight—and that they would be better ideas than these weak "suggestions" from Berlin.
"Let's go," said Wolfschmidt, dropping the last of his burning paper to the street. Enough time waiting. Enough time talking. Time to act. He popped open his door and slapped the side of the truck three times, his signal to alert the squad of soldiers waiting inside the covered back end. He raised his voice, now that his timeline had begun. It would not matter now if anyone else heard them. It was too late for anyone to whimper for help.
"Raus!" he shouted, strutting toward the open tailgate."Out! What are you boys waiting for? A written invitation? We have work to do, and not much time to do it!"
With that
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