Fire and Steel, Volume 6

by Gerald N. Lund

  “When we returned,” Erika continued, “our car was gone and there was a new car in the driveway, one we had never seen before. And we drove away. Two hours after that, we checked into a hotel in Basel, on the French border.” She looked at her father. “Another shock was when Papa checked us in under different names and presented papers to the clerk verifying our new identities. Suddenly, it was like our old selves no longer existed.”

  Hans’s head snapped up. “You’re abandoning the chalet too? But you love that place.”

  “No, Hans,” Alemann said sadly. “We used to love that place. And we used to love our home. And we used to love our car. Now they are no longer ours. And we change hotels and locations every couple of days just to be safe.”

  “But where are you going to go?” Emilee cried.

  Hans was reeling. “No one saw us that night in the park, Alemann. We made sure of that. What makes you think you are in danger?”

  “What you mean to say,” Alemann replied, “is that we hope no one saw us. But you’re right, Hans. That wasn’t why we left.”

  “Then why?”

  “After the Nuremberg Laws, Richelle and I decided we had to be prepared for any emergency. So while I was in Vienna, I asked our source to create three new, totally independent identities for the four of us. At that same time, I began quietly transferring my assets to safe places using those new identities. Richelle and I also secretly sold our home to a real estate brokerage company from Nuremberg.” He gave a short, mirthless laugh. “Nuremberg. How’s that for irony?”

  “You still haven’t said why. Why now, if it has nothing to do with Yakov?”

  “I didn’t say it had nothing to do with Yakov, only that it wasn’t fear of being caught up in the sweep that got Yakov. Here’s the difference. When I watched Yakov die so senselessly, so courageously, trying to save a girl he didn’t even know, that was like a sword in my heart. A sword of shame as well as sorrow. We spoke of little else the next day as we drove. The guilt was almost unbearable. So you see, Yakov was the catalyst for this change we’re undergoing, but he was not the cause.”

  Alemann drew in a deep breath. “This may be hard for you to understand, but though we renounced our Jewish faith for all these years to protect our family, we still deeply believe in the precepts and practices of our faith. So for years, both Richelle and I have been filled with this deep guilt and shame for turning away. Some of my ancestors were killed by Christians when they refused to renounce Judaism during the Crusades. My great-grandfather was nearly beaten to death by his neighbors. And here we are, upper-middle-class German citizens, living this remarkably wonderful and peaceful life. I know I am going to meet my ancestors someday.” His voice was low, and Hans and Emilee leaned forward to hear better. “What do I say to them? How do I even face them?”

  Richelle moved closer and took his hand in hers. “As we drove, we talked a lot about Yakov. What prompted him to intervene with that girl? Surely he knew it was an insane thing to do. Yet he did it, and it cost him his life. Why did he do it?” She touched her fingers to her bosom. “Because of what he was in here. And as we talked about that, we decided that it was time that we find what is inside of us.”

  Tears spilled over again. “And so, by the time we pulled in at the chalet, we had made a decision. It was time to come out into the light. Time to acknowledge who we are before we lose sight of that completely. We talked about running away to America or some other safe place, then letting the world know who and what we are. But we couldn’t get Yakov out of our mind. He didn’t wait until it was safe to be brave.”

  “So,” Alemann added, putting his arm around Richelle, “we are Jewish, and we can no longer be ashamed of that.”

  Hans sat back. “We understand. And we admire and honor your courage.”

  “Yes,” Emilee said. “What can we do to help you?”

  Erika was the one who spoke next. “Before they answer that, there’s something that Leyna and I want you to know.” Leyna was nodding vigorously. “That first morning in the chalet,” Erika went on, “Mama and Papa sat us down and told us everything. They offered us an option.”

  Hans, Lisa, and Emilee were watching the two sisters closely now, but it was Richelle who spoke. “Before the girls were awake, Alemann placed a call to Mitch and Edie Westland. We told them everything that we have told you.” Tears welled up and she had to stop.

  Alemann went on for her. “We asked them that if it came to that, could we send Erika and Leyna to Utah to live with them?”

  Lisa nearly leaped to her feet. “To stay with them until it’s safe again? Wonderful idea!”

  Richelle shook her head. “No. We asked them if they would be willing to adopt them as their own. Even baptize them as Mormons, if that was what Erika and Leyna wanted.”

  “Adopt them?” Emilee was aghast.

  “With the caveat,” Alemann added, “that if things ever changed here in Germany, we could ask for them back.”

  “Oh, no, Richelle!” Emilee cried.

  Erika spoke. “Mama and Papa sat me and Leyna down that morning and told us they had made a decision to honor their real heritage. They were very frank with us, laying out the possible consequences. Then they told us about the Westlands and gave Leyna and me half an hour to talk about what we wanted to do.”

  Her head came up. “We were back in five minutes. We are Jewish too. And we are Zeidners”—a quick flicker of a smile—“or whatever last name we end up with. And we love our parents more than life itself. That was our answer.”

  Alemann pulled free and turned to the others. “So with that, let me answer your question. We have come to ask two favors of you.”

  “Anything.” All three had spoken as one.

  Alemann leaned forward, a droll smile across his face. “Hans, the first thing is, I need you to lend me five thousand marks that we can use as traveling money.”

  Hans blanched. “Five thousand! But. . . .” Then he swallowed hard. “We don’t have anywhere near that much in the house, Alemann, but we do in savings. I can go to the bank—”

  Alemann’s laugh cut him off. He reached into his inside coat pocket and withdrew a thick sheaf of currency. “Hans Otto Eckhardt, as a token of our appreciation for your family’s friendship, I hereby give you a gift of five thousand marks.”

  Hans just gaped. “What?”

  Alemann was chuckling now. “Come on, Hans. Humor me. Take it.”

  Frowning, Hans did so.

  “Gut, gut. Now I want you to hide this in a safe place somewhere in the house. And don’t be spending it all at once.” He pulled a slip of paper out of his shirt pocket. “Then, first thing in the morning, you’ll go to your bank and have them wire five thousand marks from your savings account to this bank in Zurich. It is a personal loan that I solemnly promised to pay back to you. Got it?” Hans still looked a little dazed. “Tell them I threatened you if you didn’t lend me the money.”

  “How could you ever threaten me?”

  “If you don’t help us get away safely, I’ll tell the university your thesis is heavily plagiarized.”

  “Alemann!” Richelle said sharply. “You’ll do no such thing.”

  “Hans knows that,” he said, then sobered. “But there has to be a plausible explanation why Hans would lend us this much money.” He turned back to Hans, reaching into his other coat pocket. This time he pulled out a sealed letter and handed it to Hans.

  Hans looked at the name on the front, then gasped. “It’s to the dean?”

  “Of course. It’s my resignation from the university. In it, I also tell him everything that we’ve told you. Which will ‘shock’ you to the core, of course, hearing it for the first time. But you can’t give it to him before ten. By then we’ll be in France, Holland, or Belgium. Tell him we came by early in the morning, demanding your help.” Alemann abruptly stood up. “And with that
, my friend, I am afraid we must take our leave.”

  As Lisa, Erika, and Leyna stood and fell into each other’s arms again, Lisa cried, “Will we ever see you again?”

  “Oh,” Alemann said solemnly, “I think that is a distinct possibility. Just not for a long time.”

  February 3, 1937, 11:45 a.m.—Office of Dean Eberhardt

  Hans stopped at the door for a moment, took a deep breath, then opened it and went inside. The secretary was sitting at her typewriter. She turned, looked up, and smiled. “Herr Eckhardt, please be seated. Dr. Eberhardt is on the phone, but should be—”

  The inner door opened. “Ah, Hans,” the dean exclaimed. “Right on time. Of course.” He motioned for him to come in and stepped back. “No calls, Frau Weicker.”

  As Hans followed him in, three words came into his mind. Short. Balding. Pudgy. He smiled inwardly. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Dean Eberhardt. I’m sorry to bother you, knowing how busy you are.”

  “Nonsense,” he said. “My door is always open to you, Hans.”

  He motioned to a leather chair in front of his desk and went around and sat down heavily in his own chair. He leaned back, smiling expansively. “And how are things coming along with your thesis?”

  “I’m very happy with it, actually. I hope to have it done before the term is completed.”

  “Gut, gut! Be sure you take at least a week off before starting on your doctorate, eh?” Then he laughed raucously at his own joke.

  Hans laughed too. “Maybe ten days. But no more.”

  The dean laughed, then quickly sobered. “So, my secretary said it was a matter of some urgency.”

  Hans leaned forward. “It is. And to be honest, it has left me quite perplexed. Even troubled.”

  “How so?”

  “Herr Doktor Zeidner and his wife and daughters stopped by our home this morning.”

  Eberhardt sat up with a start. “Alemann? I thought he was on leave in Switzerland.”

  “That’s what I thought too. I was shocked to say the least when I opened the door and saw who was there.”

  “And his family was with him?”

  “Yes. Both girls and Richelle, his wife. Which was also a shock. He had told us the girls were enrolled in a private school in Bern.”

  “Yes, that’s what he told me too.”

  Hans started fidgeting with one of the buttons on his overcoat. “It was . . . uh . . . very unusual. He seemed quite distracted. Very nervous. Almost frightened.”

  “Frightened? Of what?”

  “I don’t know. I asked him if everything was all right and he assured me it was, but then he turned right around and asked if I could lend him five thousand marks.”

  The dean gasped. “Five thousand marks? Whatever for?”

  “He wouldn’t say. Said it was an emergency and that he will pay me back in a few days. We went to the bank as soon as it opened and I wired it to his bank in Zurich.” Hans looked at his hands. “Now, I . . . I don’t know if that was wise. He was acting very strangely.”

  “But you gave it to him?” The dean’s tone was chiding.

  “Well . . . yes. He’s a good friend and mentor. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t be here. I owe him a great deal.”

  Dean Eberhardt relaxed a little, but not much. “And why did you feel I should be made aware of this?”

  “Because he asked me to give you this.” Hans reached inside his overcoat, withdrew the letter, and slid it across the desk toward the dean.

  Curious, Eberhardt picked up the envelope and examined it.

  Hans said nothing but started to get up. “I promised I would get it to you. If you need—”

  “Hold on a moment. Let me see if this is something you can handle for me.” He opened a drawer and took out a silver letter opener with a swastika embedded in the handle. After slitting open the envelope, he extracted the letter. He unfolded it, sat back in his chair, and began to read. Hans turned as if he were looking out the window, but he was watching him out of the corner of his eye.

  No more than five seconds into his reading, he stiffened. “What?” Then he gave a low cry and shot to his feet, his face turning a mottled pink. He swore, then swore again.

  Hans got up too. “Is something wrong?”

  It was as though the dean hadn’t heard him. He was reading the letter again, his eyes flitting back and forth, muttering angrily to himself.

  “I can leave if you wish, Herr—”

  “Nein! Stay here. I’ll be right back.” He was up and around the desk, the letter clutched in his hand. As he yanked open the door, he almost shouted at his secretary. “Frau Weicker. Get me the Office of the Gestapo.” And then he pulled the door shut behind him.

  Hans sat back in his chair. Brilliant, Alemann. As always. Absolutely brilliant.

  12:34 p.m.

  When Hans heard male voices in the outer office, he got to his feet and turned to face the door. His heart was pounding. What if whoever came was the same officer who had shot Yakov? Would he be able to keep a calm demeanor, or would his body language betray him?

  A moment later the door was thrown open and Eberhardt strode in, followed closely by a man wearing the black uniform of a Gestapo officer. His insignia showed that he was a standard leader in the secret police, which was the equivalent of an army colonel. Hans felt relief wash over him. It wasn’t the same man.

  Hans snapped to attention and extended his arm. “Heil Hitler!” he barked. The officer was momentarily startled then saluted him back. He peered at him. “Army?” he asked.

  Hans was still ramrod straight. “Yes, sir. Sergeant Hans Otto Eckhardt, transportation unit to begin with, then transferred to a combat infantry division during the Battle of Verdun.” May as well establish my bona fides right up front.

  “You may sit down, Eckhardt,” the colonel said. Hans wondered if he was being a little too dramatic. But as the colonel took the dean’s chair behind the desk and Eberhardt retrieved a chair from the corner, he remained standing. Only when both were seated did he sit down. As he did so, he thought he saw a flash of approval in the colonel’s eyes. He was probably used to being treated with reverential awe. A good thing to remember.

  “Tell me about this friend of yours,” the colonel snapped, laying the envelope down.

  “I. . . . Well, we’re colleagues. We both teach here at the university.”

  “Yes, yes! Go on. The dean tells me that you were also close friends.”

  “Good friends, I would say. Our wives and daughters are close friends, but. . . .” Hans exhaled in disgust. “Well, I thought we were good friends until this morning. Now I’m not so sure.”

  “And why is that?”

  He sighed. “He came to my home at eight thirty this morning with his family, said they had come to say goodbye, that they were off on a trip.”

  “And how long did he stay?”

  “Less than half an hour, then we went to the bank together.”

  “Ah, yes. To give him a loan of five thousand marks. You must be very good friends, Herr Eckhardt.” His voice had an edge to it, even though he was still smiling.

  “We are, but it was . . . uh . . . quite strange, actually. A total surprise.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Herr Zeidner is financially very much better off than my family.”

  The colonel tapped the letter with his finger. “Did he let you read it? Or tell you its contents?”

  “Nein. It was sealed when he handed it to me.”

  “It hadn’t been opened,” Dean Eberhardt volunteered.

  Hans continued. “Alemann . . . um . . . Herr Doktor Zeidner told me that he had planned to drop the letter off here at Dean Eberhardt’s office himself but ran out of time.”

  One eyebrow lifted. “Did he tell you where he was going?”

>   “On holiday. He didn’t say where.”

  The officer leaned forward, his jaw set and his eyes hard as a knife blade. “Herr Doktor Zeidner announced in his letter that he and his wife and their two daughters are Jews who have hidden their true nature for many years. Did you know that?”

  Hans shot to his feet, jaw dropping. “What? No! There must be a mistake!”

  “There is no mistake!” the officer barked coldly.

  “But . . . they are Lutherans. My wife and I have been friends with them for several years. We would know if they were Jews.”

  The colonel picked up the letter and tossed it across the desk. “Read it!” he barked.

  Hans did so, drawing in short gasps of breath at the appropriate places. He dropped the letter like it was hot. Then he buried his head in his hands and groaned. “No, no, no. This can’t be. I don’t understand.”

  “What’s not to understand?” the colonel snarled. “He is a Jew. He says it right there. He says that what happened on the night of the roundup of Jews is what convinced him to stop hiding his identity.” He leaned in, his eyes suddenly like flint. “Dean Eberhardt says that you and he were in the library that night.”

  “Ja. He had come to show me where I could find some sources for my master’s thesis. We were just leaving when the soldiers came.”

  “Whose idea was it that you sneak out a back door of the library?”

  “It was the president of the university who suggested it,” the dean said nervously. “I checked the list and we had no faculty or staff on it from our college. So when Zeidner and Eckhardt here were told they could go, the president suggested they go out the back so that others wouldn’t try to follow.”

  Thank you, Herr Eberhardt. Hans nodded vigorously, tensing for the next inevitable question. As he had thought about this all night, he knew that here was his most exposed flank. If anyone had seen him and Alemann together, it would be over.

  “And where did you go once you were outside?”

  “Uh . . . I had my car in the parking lot, so I offered Herr Zeidner a ride home. But he said he wanted to walk.”