From the Ashes

by Sandra Saidak

  “Where did they go when they died?” asked a young man.

  “Good question,” said Adolf. The question had come up before, and as always, he wished he had more comforting news to give the dying. “The Jews didn’t seem to give much thought to what happens after this life. There are references to a place called Shoal, which seems to be a sort of netherworld.”

  “Like for ghosts?” asked Andre.

  “Something like that. In the book of Daniel, there are some hints of a nicer place.”

  “But didn’t they have some kind of Valhalla?” asked an older boy.

  “Or heaven?” asked a woman.

  “Not that I’ve seen,” said Adolf. “Of course, we only have a fraction of their writings. Their faith in the one God was very strong. They expected him to take care of them—in this life, and in whatever came next.”

  “Yeah,” laughed an old woman. “That God took really good care of His people, didn’t He?”

  “I guess they thought so,” Adolf said mildly. “I’ve found records of Jews who were offered life by our illustrious leaders. Those who looked Aryan—and many did—and who had skills the Party needed, were given a chance to deny their parents and recant their faith in exchange for life—and none of them accepted.”

  “Wait a minute,” said a bald man who was covered with skin lesions. “You mean, even without the promise of some sort of hero’s paradise, they died for their religion.”

  “So it would seem,” said Adolf.

  “They were fools!” spat the woman who laughed earlier.

  “Or maybe they just had something that no one alive today has ever experienced,” said Adolf.

  “He has a point,” said the bald man. “Look at us! Look where life and our illustrious leaders have brought us! We’re animals waiting to die. I, for one, would trade whatever time I have left, for that kind of faith.”

  “But how…?” The boy beside Andre gasped for breath and tried again. Adolf leaned forward, but Andre, with an ear to his mouth, translated. “He says, ‘how do you get it? How do you make their god your god? Luis doesn’t have much time left.”

  Adolf felt himself shaking. How indeed? What he wanted to know at that moment was how did he get himself into these situations?

  “I can only tell you what my friends and I used to do. Jewish prayer is like everything else in that faith. It’s a personal connection with God. You close your eyes and concentrate on what is most important to you right now. Don’t worry about what anyone else would think about it. Then, imagine a presence more powerful than anything on earth, and know that force cares about that thing as much—or more—as you do. Whatever you find there will be God.”

  Adolf watched as one by one, everyone around him closed their eyes. Men and women; young and old; faces pinched with pain or worn down from a lifetime of care. Most of those dying were children. What was he doing to them? Selling them faith like patent medicine?

  “What’s going on here?” a loud, imperious voice demanded.

  All around Adolf, eyes flew open and people started like chickens in a coop. He turned angrily, and saw a swarthy, thick set man of about forty. He was flanked by a pair of larger men, who, Adolf guessed, probably had more brawn than brain.

  “Jean Paul, I presume?” said Adolf.

  The older man looked wary, yet flattered. “You know me?”

  Adolf took a deep breath and bit back his rage. Whatever his beliefs or motives, Jean Paul craved acknowledgement from his Aryan masters. If Adolf could use that to keep peace, then he would.

  “I know that you and I share an interest in ancient truths. I’m always glad to find fellow thinkers.”

  “I knew I was right about you!” said Jean Paul. “But why are you sharing sacred knowledge with those not intended to possess it?”

  “As far as I know, there’s no real hierarchy in illegal activities,” said Adolf. “As I’m sure you’ve noticed, the Party takes a dim view on digging up truth they’ve worked so hard to bury. It seems to me that anyone who has the inclination is welcomed to the stories—and the risks.”

  Jean Paul stepped closer to Adolf and lowered his voice. “Knowledge is power! Surely you know that. This truth we’ve found could raise us up and make us great. What will happen if you let just anyone have it?”

  “For starters, we’ll have more help using what we find. More minds, working together-“

  “Minds?” Jean Paul gazed with contempt at the crowd, still gathered, much to Adolf’s relief, and watching the confrontation with interest. “Their kind can never grasp what’s in these books! Most of them can’t even read!”

  “But most of them would learn to, given the chance. Jean Paul, these are your neighbors! You were all brought here for the same purpose, by the same morally bankrupt leaders. How can you set yourself apart?”

  Jean Paul drew himself up, though still noticeably shorter than Adolf. “These people are peasants! I can trace my lineage back to the fourteenth century, when we were stewards to kings! Before the Nazis, my great-grandfather ran our town, and mixed with government leaders. Even now, until I came here, I was Secretary to the Party Liaison Officer. You can’t compare people like us to people like them!”

  “I was actually hoping for a world without ‘us’ and ‘them.’ That’s why I like Judaism. It seems more interested in helping people live with each other than setting up a few with power over the rest.”

  “Then you obviously don’t understand Judaism at all!” said Jean Paul. “True, there are men in the stories who start out small, but once they gain God’s favor, they are always set above those around them.”

  “An interesting interpretation. Personally, I see those same stories in a very different light.” Suddenly, Adolf grinned. “But let’s handle this in a traditionally Jewish manner. I read in someone’s diary that when you get two Jews together, you get at least three opinions.” He pointed to the group. “Come join us. We’re discussing Genesis; a book I’m sure you’ll agree has a lot to say about our disagreement.”

  Jean Paul’s lip curled. “You have women in this group!” he spat. “What about the laws which forbid women from studying Torah? The laws that bar them from most aspects of religious life? Do you think you can just ignore them? How can you teach a religion if you don’t even understand its most fundamental laws?”

  Adolf turned his back on Jean Paul’s outraged protests and returned to his bench. “I apologize for the interruption,” he told the group. “Since Jean Paul has questioned your right to study this religion, I suggest we deal with that issue first, and save prayer for later.

  “I’d like to discuss the philosophy I find most attractive in Judaism.” Adolf began reading Genesis from where he left off, and continued reading through the end of chapter ten. He occasionally glanced at Jean Paul, who listened from the edge of the crowd, refusing to sit, and glowering the entire time.

  “So what does it mean?” Adolf asked when he finished reading. “First we are told that everyone on earth is descended from Adam and Eve. Then, a short time later, the human race is wiped out, and we start again, this time descended from Noah and his family.”

  Adolf looked at his audience, but no one said anything. “It says something very important about rank and status,” he prompted. “So important their prophets told the story twice, so even the densest among us would have to get it.” Still nothing.

  Adolf was about to give up and explain it, when Mirielle tentatively raised her hand. “Go ahead,” said Adolf.

  “Does it mean that everyone is really the same? That since we all came from the same parents, we’re all one family?”

  “Yes!” cried Adolf. “That’s exactly what it means! Now take it one step further: no one is, by birth, any greater or lesser than anyone else. It’s only the choices we make; the things we do that determine what we become.”

  “But what about the Master Race?” someone in the back asked.

  Adolf grinned. “What about it?”

  “But
we’re taught in school—“

  “Everyone knows the Racial Hierarchy—“

  “And what if everything we’ve been taught is a lie?” Adolf asked quietly. “The Jews believed that all men—and women, though that’s another argument—were equals. Status depended on what you did, not the blood in your veins—because everyone’s blood is the same.”

  “Everyone’s?” Adolf looked up to see one of the African test subjects, standing in the back of the study group. His voice was deep and carried well. Adolf had no trouble hearing or understanding the accented German, but he was briefly surprised the man could talk.

  “As far as I know,” said Adolf, “all humans trace their ancestry back to the same two couples. As for when and how the different races came into being, I really don’t know.”

  “How could you not know?” cried Jean Paul. “You’re an educated man! You know that certain genetic weaknesses created…”

  “I know what those who call themselves the Master Race have to say on the subject!” Adolf shouted. “And I know what the Jews said! And I believe the Jews!”

  There was a moment of stunned silence. Then, what had been the courtyard of a polio ward just moments before, erupted into a debate that only vital, sentient human beings could take part in. Adolf crossed through the shouting, gesticulating patients until he came to the African.

  “What is your name?” he asked.

  “Jacques,” he replied. “Of Algiers.”

  “You are welcome in our discussions. Your two friends as well.”

  “They aren’t my friends, Herr. We just happen to be the same race. Truth is, I never met them before we came here to die.”

  “This might be a good place to start making friends,” said Adolf.

  “Yesterday, I wouldn’t have believed that,” said Jacques.

  “And today?”

  “Maybe.”

  Then Andre was tugging on Adolf’s sleeve, and people were demanding answers to questions they had never even imagined asking before today. By the time the meeting broke up, Jacques was gone.

  But he was back for the next meeting.

  It was Jean Paul and his flunkies who refused to attend.

  CHAPTER 16

  “Adolf?” Varina’s voice seemed far away. “Adolf, I’m sorry, but it’s time. She won’t last the night and she’s asking for you.”

  “I know.” Adolf lurched from his cot and tried to stand, but lack of sleep made him dizzy. He stumbled, clutched a supporting arm—and was surprised to find it was Varina’s. She stood, all five ferocious feet of her, balancing her own weight and his with a little crutch and a lot of determination. Looking into her worried brown eyes, it was hard to remember the contempt he had seen there just a few months ago.

  “I’m so sorry, Adolf,” she said. “We really thought we had the vaccine. And we’ll have it soon. You know that if Speer could have kept her alive any longer—“

  “Of course I know! And why shed tears for one child, anyway, Varina? You’ve seen hundreds die! And no matter when we find the cure, it’s going to be after too many good people have died!” He grabbed a pair of books from his cot and strode out of the men’s ward.

  The February wind was from the north, cold and fierce. Adolf had forgotten his coat, but he pushed on without it. He had forgotten his manners with Varina, but he pushed past her too. He couldn’t stop to apologize; couldn’t go back for his coat. He needed to rage against someone or something who wouldn’t get hurt if he was going to face a dying child’s questions tonight.

  In the women’s ward, Mirielle lay on her cot. If she had been Aryan; if her father had the right connections, she would be in a modern hospital on an iron lung and antibiotics.

  But at least here, she wouldn’t die alone.

  Although Mirielle had no immediate family in the camp, everyone in the study group was with her. In less than three months, Adolf had converted most of the population to a religion he wasn’t even sure he himself believed in. Why couldn’t I have picked a religion with a nice, pretty afterlife? He asked himself. Then we could all just sit around singing and clapping our hands until she died, and then go home happy for her!

  Mirielle caught him in her gaze before he was halfway to her bed. The soul that lived in those eyes was old for her eleven years; huge in her wasted body. Jacques, who was speaking to her and holding her hand, turned to follow her gaze, and stood when he saw Adolf, indicating the place he had just vacated.

  Adolf nodded his thanks to Jacques, and sat on the bed beside Mirielle. “How’s my best student?” he asked.

  “You tell me,” she whispered. He moved closer to catch her words. “Tell me…” Her voice was lost in a series of gasps. Adolf took the wet cloth someone gave him and gently moistened her mouth. “Tell me the truth. Where am I going? Jean Paul says nowhere. I’m just going to…end.”

  “Jean Paul is a swinehund who should be more afraid of where he’s going,” said Adolf, promising himself a private “discussion” with the man who saw fit to share such opinions with a dying child. “When he dies, he probably will just end, because there wasn’t much of him to begin with.

  “But you, liebling. You’re going to be with God.”

  “But the books. I read as much as I could. There’s almost nothing there about…” Her voice trailed off.

  “There’s so little in the books, because Judaism is a faith carried in the heart. And because, like so much else, the journey of the soul is a private thing, just between you and God. But you were with God before you came to this world, and you’ll be with Him after you leave it.”

  Mirielle’s brow wrinkled, making her look—for the first time-- like a frightened child. “I don’t remember any of that.”

  Adolf took her hand. “You don’t have to. You just have to trust me. You can do that, can’t you?”

  The little girl’s face relaxed and she smiled. “Tell me what it’s going to be like.”

  “Like a big, warm hug. Like that feeling you get when you solve a puzzle no one else could. Like being so strong you never have to be afraid of anything ever again.” Adolf’s breath caught in his throat and he wiped away a tear. When he could, he began to speak again, of a place he had never before believed in, but that was now very clear to him.

  It was only when he ran out of words that he looked down to see Mirielle drawing her last labored breath, and hear the rattle as the breath left her body.

  But the smile on her face was almost enough to make him believe in angels.

  Adolf woke up without any idea how he had gotten to bed. Mirielle! But no, she was dead. Had he missed her funeral?

  “Oh, good, you’re awake.” Luc, a young man who had been a neighbor of Mirielle’s, and was currently one of Judaism’s most fervent students, stood nervously by Adolf’s side. “Can I get you anything?”

  “How long have I slept?”

  “Almost sixteen hours. Herr Doctor told us not to wake you. He said you’ve been working too hard with too little rest. Something about burning a candle at both ends?”

  “The funeral?”

  “It will begin as soon as you get there. You’re going to speak, aren’t you?”

  Adolf found that the washbasin on the table had been filled with fresh water, a relatively clean towel beside it. The cold water felt good on his face, and he started to feel almost human as he combed his disheveled hair into submission. The dye was gone; except for the dirt, it was blond again.

  “I’ll read,” he told Luc. “I think I’ll leave the speaking to those who know her better.”

  “Oh. We were hoping you’d speak.” Luc’s eyes widened and he began to stammer. “Not that I meant any criticism, mein Herr—“

  “Just Adolf, please.” From the battered trunk at the foot of his cot, Adolf drew his last good shirt. Or at least the less torn of the two. “And criticize me any time you feel like it. I keep telling you: I’m not one of the Master Race because there is no Master Race.”

  “Of course, mein Her
r.” Luc scurried away.

  The funeral was simple, as they all were. The crematorium had been shut down three weeks ago. As usual, no explanation was given. It was just as well, Adolf thought, as most of the living and the dying in the camp had adopted a religion which insisted on burial. The graveyard he now stood in was just hard earth at the edge of the compound. No one got a coffin, but just by burying their dead at all, the people here were defying the Party and asserting their humanity.

  Most of the camp turned out. Dr. Speer was missing, but he rarely left his lab these days. It was surprising enough that Varina was there, as she rarely left Speer’s side. Jean Paul and his friends were missing as well, for which Adolf was grateful. He had said goodbye to Mirielle last night. It was for the living that he spoke now.

  “We are gathered—yet again—“ he began, “to bid farewell to a friend. Mirielle was a gifted child, who would have grown into a brilliant and insightful woman. But though her time with us was brief, she touched us all in ways that will never be forgotten.

  “I’d like to read from the Book of Psalms.” Adolf opened a crumbling leather bound volume, and read three psalms, all written by King David. Adolf always found the story of a man who was both poet and king; harp player and giant slayer inspirational.

  After reading them in German, Adolf read them again in Hebrew. He had noticed that although no one here could understand the ancient language, they all seemed to revere the sound of it.

  After everyone had left the grave, and Adolf paused to gather his thoughts, Dr. Speer approached. Adolf knew the moment he saw him what message the doctor brought, and for that moment, Adolf hated him.

  Evidently, Speer could read Adolf as well as Adolf could read Speer. “Maybe you’ll forgive me when you hear the whole story,” the doctor said, sorrow not quite overcoming the triumph in his eyes. “It’s not a cure, Adolf. It’s a vaccine. It wouldn’t have saved Mirielle, even if we found it the day you arrived.