by Bodie Thoene
Each answer Helen Ibsen attempted to make was cut short by the stamp of a boot against the stone floor and a tirade about ungrateful citizens who wanted all the benefits of the Fascist government but were unwilling to make the necessary sacrifices.
The sacrifices, Lori thought grimly, are human.
The officer turned his attention from cursing the Jewish members of New Church to the little blond Aryan son of Pastor Ibsen. “Now, here is a handsome child.” Lori was sickened by the sound of a smile in the evil man’s voice. “What is your name?”
“James.” The reply was sullen.
“Do not talk to him, Jamie,” Lori whispered. Jacob nudged her to silence.
“James. Ja. A good name. From the Holy Bible.” There was the popping sound of a riding crop slapping against a boot top. Hitler also carried a whip, and such props had become the fashion of the Nazi party members. “So, James. You are blond. Obviously Aryan. And yet your mother and father keep you here in this dark place, away from others who are your equal in race. You cannot go camping or hiking with boys your own age, ja?”
James was expected to reply, but he did not. Inwardly, Lori cheered her little brother.
The officer continued. “Instead you are forced to stay here in the company of Jews and enemies of the Fatherland. How do you feel about that, James? Being here with these Untermenschen? Look at them! Can you not see a difference in the way they look and carry themselves? Look at the big nose of that woman. And her eyes set close to each other. You see she is a Jew. Very different from you. How do you feel about being made to stay in the same room with these pigs?”
“Papa says the Lord was a Jew. I guess I like it fine.”
The officer snorted in derision. The crop slapped harder against his boot. He was growing impatient with the game. He turned on Frau Helen. “I see how you teach him! How you fill his mind with nonsense!” He snapped his finger and suddenly the church was filled with the boy’s screams as James was grabbed up and carried out. Helen Ibsen cried after her son but was held back. No one else spoke.
“We will see to it that James is properly educated, Frau Ibsen. You may weep if you will, but I tell you this. Your son will forget about you soon enough. In one month color will return to his cheeks, and he will become strong and disciplined and will not think about you except to marvel at your backwardness.” His boot heels clicked against the slate floor as he circled the group of new captives. “You have another child, Frau Ibsen. You have also refused to allow her into the party organizations. It may go easier for you and your husband at the trial if you will voluntarily tell us where she is.”
Helen spoke through clenched teeth. Her words were full of pain. “She is with friends. You cannot . . . take our children from us.”
“But they are of minor age. With their parents in prison they naturally become wards of the state. Now, where is your daughter?”
“You think we would ever allow her—”
“You have no choice!” A clap of the hand and the shouted order followed. “Search the place! Find the girl!”
Lori trembled all over. Her teeth chattered with fear and grief. Jacob put a hand on her shoulder to steady her as jackboots slapped against the floor of New Church. Lori held tightly to Mark’s hand as footsteps clambered up to the stairs to the organ loft. Would they think to look in the bellows? This had always been a wonderful place to hide in a game of hide-and-seek. She prayed that some soldier would not know of a similar hiding place and look here.
Lori could feel Mark’s heart pounding wildly as the soldier entered the loft. The man’s breath was clearly audible as he stopped to search under the seats and around the pipe organ. Only the thin leather of the bellows separated them from capture. She bit her finger to stop the chattering of her teeth.
“Any luck, Dietz?” a voice called up the stairs.
The reply of the hunter was like a shout in her ear. “Just a minute, Paul there was something . . . I thought I heard. . . .”
Lori held her breath and prayed that the man would not hear her heart pounding in unison with Mark’s. And then, for a wild moment, she considered turning herself in, walking out of the bellows and going to prison with Mama. The Nazis would send her to prison if she refused to join their organization. And then she would be with her mother. What other future did she have?
Jacob’s fingers tightened on her shoulder, holding her back. With a shake of her head she realized that if she gave herself up, it would also mean the end for Mark and Jacob. She closed her eyes and leaned back against him. His heart beat in a calm rhythm, as if he were not afraid. Somehow it soothed Lori.
The soldier cleared his throat and spit on the floor before he turned to call down, “Nothing up here but dust and hymn books.”
Lori let her breath out slowly, quietly, as the soldier retreated down the steps.
Moments later other men shouted the results of their search. “No one else in the building!” They had searched from bell tower to basement and found nothing.
“Come on, then.” The Gestapo leader did not sound disappointed. After all, he had made quite a catch. “Put a chain and padlock on the church doors, Sergeant. If anyone is in here, they will starve soon enough.”
Within moments the shuffling of feet and the crash of doors marked the exit of the prisoners and their guards. But even after the building grew silent and empty, the three remained in the hiding place to listen and wait in case someone remained behind.
***
Someone had thrown them into the street, and Alfie picked them up—rings with diamonds and rubies in them and two jeweled necklaces. In the deep pockets of Alfie’s new coat the jewelry jingled softly. One for Frau Helen Ibsen and one for Lori. Papa had always brought him a present when he came home from a long trip; it seemed like a good idea to bring something home to Lori and Frau Helen. He had picked up a toy truck for Jamie, but a Hitler-man had knocked him down and kicked him hard and taken it from him. That explained why so many people were getting beat up. They had things other people wanted. Like the truck.
At dawn Alfie finally spotted the steeple of New Church. Across from it lay the smoking ruins of the church where the Jews went on Saturday. It was all burned to pieces. Four blocks away, Alfie stopped and stared at the sight. “Where are the Jews?” he muttered aloud again. He looked at his shoes and his trousers and coat. His fingers closed around the jewels in his pockets, and suddenly he knew where the Jews were and why everyone had laughed when he said he wanted to thank them.
The face of Ugly-mouth flashed in his mind, and he remembered the empty beds in the ward and why he had run away! In the streets he had heard people cry like Werner. He had seen them loaded into big trucks. “Where are they going?” he had asked.
“East.”
“To a better place.”
“The Promised Land.”
Now Alfie realized that they were going to the same place Werner was going. The lid of the box was closing. Probably all the beds in the ward were empty this morning, empty like the smashed shops. Alfie shuddered. His clothes were stolen. Everything was stolen from the Jews! Alfie would tell Pastor Ibsen that he had taken the things and they needed to be given back!
He frowned and stared hard at the smoldering ruins of the synagogue. “But who is left to give the things back to?”
Alfie stepped off the curb and walked slowly to New Church. He felt ashamed that he had been so dumb, ashamed that he had stood and watched while men like Ugly-mouth beat up people and hauled them away. He had felt only confusion when he had seen it. Only confusion. But now he was ashamed that he did not know when everyone else did. He would not have stolen the shoes or the trousers or the coat. He would have walked barefoot all the way here to New Church and let the good pastor find him old shoes and clothes to wear. Frau Helen and Lori would not want his presents because they were stolen. Mama had told him about stealing, and he had never once taken anything that was not his. Now, one night out of the hospital, he had suddenly become a
thief!
Three police cars drove slowly past him toward New Church. A cold lump of fear made him forget that he was hungry. Had the police come to arrest him? To take him back and close the lid on him, too?
Alfie’s eyes widened as the police cars slid to a stop in front of New Church. He halted in his tracks and stared as men piled out and ran to each door and began to shout and pound! Had they heard that Alfie was coming to New Church? “No,” he said dully. He watched as the doors collapsed inward and men charged in. “Pastor did not take anything. It was me!”
Alfie did not walk forward to confess his guilt. He simply stood weeping on the corner and watching as familiar families were dragged out and loaded into the cars and vans. “Frau Helen!” he cried weakly. And then, he saw the blond hair of little Jamie! Poor Jamie! His eyes were scared, like Werner’s eyes when they took him away.
“I’m sorry,” he cried softly. “I’m sorry!” Alfie sank down on the curb to wait, certain that they would come for him as well.
***
Sleep was a muddle of dreams for Moshe and he lay restless in the tent at Hanita. Through a mist he saw the face of his brother, Eli, pale and lifeless on the stone of the Temple Mount. He heard the screams of the rioters in Jerusalem as Haj Amin Husseini stirred them with the passion of his own hatred against the English and the Jews. Far away his mother and father looked on and wept over the body of Eli. Then his mother raised her eyes toward heaven and cried out that Moshe, as well, had been killed.
Through the jumble of bloody images, Moshe knew he was in a tent; knew he was only dreaming. Yet he could not remember where he was or why he had come here. The archaeological dig at Gilboa? The secret training camp for student members of the Haganah? Then the image of Captain Orde came to him.
“We’ll have to hide you for a bit, Moshe, until we can get you to England. The Mufti, it seems, thinks you had something to do with the death of Victoria and Ismael Hassan. There is a price on your head. The Hassan family is keen on wiping out both brothers of the Sachar family.”
Straight from Eli’s muddy grave Moshe had left Jerusalem. He and Orde had driven to Hanita, only to find still more bodies beneath blood-soaked sheets.
The memory awakened Moshe with a start. He was tangled in the blanket of his cot. Light filtered through the tan canvas of the tent, creating a dusky gloom inside. He could hear the crunch of footsteps on the gravel, the sound of shovels slapping against the ground as two fresh graves were prepared for the fallen of Hanita settlement.
He turned his head toward Captain Orde’s bed. The blankets were smoothed and made up in military fashion. Orde had managed to straighten up his side of the tent and slip out without awakening Moshe.
Moshe sat up, feeling chagrined. Not even the sound of breathing escaped the attention of Samuel Orde. Moshe had slept through a complete tent cleaning, and the captain was gone. Well, there was the difference of a true soldier and a fellow like Moshe who would rather have been out on a solitary dig or sitting in a classroom at Hebrew University.
The tent flap opened, revealing the librarian face of Zach Zabinski.
“Shalom,” he said, taking in the tousled appearance of the newest fugitive. “Where is Captain Orde?”
Moshe rubbed a hand across his face in confusion. “I barely know where I am myself. Orde? I don’t know. He isn’t here.”
That was obvious. Zach frowned and stared at the empty cot and the perfectly arranged belongings of the Englishman.
“Well, did he say where he was going?” Zach demanded.
Moshe shrugged. “I didn’t hear him say anything except his prayers just before I fell asleep.”
“Get up!” Zach ordered. “He’s gone, then. Just gone.”
“Gone?”
“Nowhere in the compound. Not in the settlement, and no one saw him leave.”
Entirely awake at such news, Moshe swung himself off the cot and pulled the cold trousers over his bare legs.
“Is his auto still here?”
“Yes.” Zach was angry with Moshe. “You said you trusted him. We asked you to keep an eye on him—”
“My eyes were closed,” Moshe said defensively. He did not admit that his mind had been hearing other voices and seeing dark images while he slept.
“Well, he is not here. And for a man to leave the settlement alone . . . especially today. The whole world has gone crazy, Moshe. Word just came in over the BBC that the Nazis have decimated the Jewish communities in Germany. At the same time, we were being hit last night—twenty-seven attacks throughout the Yishuv. The Jihad Moquades of the Mufti have been slitting Jewish throats in Palestine from north to south. That crazy Englishman is going to get himself killed if he is out of the settlement, and the British High Command will blame us for it!”
Moshe finished dressing but did not make up his cot. Pulling on his heavy blue cable-knit sweater, he followed Zach out into the misty morning air.
Larry Havas, an empty revolver tucked in his belt, strode purposefully toward the two from the mess hall.
“Where is he?” he demanded of Moshe.
The conversation in the tent was replayed, ranging from concern to blame. Why had Moshe trusted Orde, and why had Moshe not kept an eye on him? Reports came from other men and women as every foot of the settlement was searched again. Orde was not in the latrines. Not in the kitchen. Not at any sentry post. Not in the machine sheds or the barns. No one had seen him leave. He was definitely on foot, and probably well into enemy territory.
Larry Havas, who was American in every sense of the word, peered off over the rolling hillsides scarred by ravines and stubborn brush. “Crazy Englishman,” he said. “Hanita is like a little wagon train circled against the Indians—only the Moquades are a lot meaner than any Indians I ever heard about. He’s had it out there.” Larry grimaced and patted the revolver in his belt. “I sure hope he didn’t take all the ammunition out with him.”
The settlers had other things to tend to in Hanita. The graves were dug; the dead awaited burial. While the sentries kept watch, Moshe again found himself among mourners, and again he let himself weep for his brother Eli and for all who had fallen here and in the Reich throughout the night. The fate of the fanatic British captain seemed a small thing compared to the news of what had happened in Germany and the reality of two dead people lowered into the damp clay of the settlement. If Orde had gotten himself killed by being foolish that was his own fault. Sharon Zalmon’s only fault was that of being Jewish. It was enough to earn her and a thousand others their own plot of ground this morning.
11
No Right to Hope
It was a morning unlike any other in the history of Germany. A gray pall of smoke hovered over every city in the Reich. When the last synagogue had been incinerated and the last shard of glass had fallen to the street, the people came out to tour the devastated Jewish districts to see for themselves just what had happened. By the thousands and tens of thousands, Germans wandered speechless through the wreckage. And by their coming, they removed forever the excuse that they did not know what was being done to their Jewish neighbors.
On that cold day in November, no one in Germany could say, “I did not know. I did not see.”
Blackened fragments of Jewish lives filtered down in a gritty film that clung to the majestic new buildings erected in Berlin and Nuremberg and Hamburg. Ash coated the Nazi monuments and statues, a black and white relief like a photographic negative. But there were no actual negatives. Men and women alike were arrested for taking pictures; the Ministry of Propaganda did not fancy the idea of photos of destroyed Jewish shops and synagogues shouting accusations from the front pages of foreign newspapers. Even one photograph was worth a thousand self-righteous news stories. Without pictures, however, the destruction remained a private matter. As the Führer said, no other nation had offered to help Germany solve her Jewish problem. So what right did any nation have, therefore, to interfere in a purely German solution?
Everyone understood
that there were bound to be a few sanctimonious proclamations in the Western press, but all that would soon be forgotten. Other news would occupy the world tomorrow.
But on this morning, good German housewives brought their children to see what had been done to the Jewish vermin. Some regret arose among the stunned, silent crowds. In the ashes of one bonfire lay the remains of a perfectly good chair. Might that chair not have been used by an Aryan family? A half-charred bolt of cloth lay amid the rubble in a street, cloth that might have been made into pretty dresses for Aryan children. Such excess shocked the frugal Germans; such waste. Everything that had been destroyed would have belonged to the great Aryan race in time. Why had it not simply been confiscated and given to the German population?
This whispered question lay on many complaining lips this morning, but few other questions were voiced. Of all those tens of thousands of good German people touring the wreckage, few dared utter a single moral objection to the violence. A few fools interfered with the beating or arrest of a Jew; their interference, in turn, led to their own arrests. It seemed much wiser, then, to limit one’s disapproval to the smashing of good, usable material goods. Never mind the smashing of lives. Never mind that seventy thousand men were being loaded into cattle cars and shipped to any one of a hundred concentration camps. Never mind that women were left without sons and husbands, children without fathers. The Nazi Reich was evenhanded in its justice, after all. Soon all Jewish families would be in the same place.
***
On November 10, the Berlin headquarters of the Secret State Police sent out a wire at the instruction of Gestapo Chief Himmler.
To All State Headquarters and Branch Offices:
Buchenwald Concentration Camp is filled to capacity with current deliveries. Therefore, further transfers to Buchenwald are to be canceled, with the exception of transports already underway. To prevent errors, this HQ will be informed well in advance of transfers to the Dachau and Sachsenhausen camps.
