by Bodie Thoene
She paled visibly and repeated the word “Gestapo” as she peered down through the tiniest of slits.
The silence grew so intense that Peter could hear the old woman’s breath against the fabric.
Then a distant, cheerful voice came from the street below. “Madame Singer! Madame . . . I have come back . . . I forgot something. Won’t you let me in?”
Frau Singer let out an exasperated sigh. “Peter!” she explained, “Gestapo, indeed! It is one of my clients, and you have frightened the life out of me!” She cracked open the window and cupped her hand to call down, “One moment, bitte! I will let you in, just one moment!” The window slammed shut and the old woman whirled to face Peter. “Go back with your mother and sister.”
Peter, chagrined by his cowardly reaction to a doorbell, glanced toward Willie, who still slept in the bottom drawer of a chest in the parlor. “Should I take Willie?”
Frau Singer clapped her hands at him, ordering him to leave the room. Willie was sleeping. He would be fine. There was a very cold client waiting downstairs for her to come, and Peter must stop this nonsense!
“Coming! Coming! Coming!” she called as she tramped down the steps of the side entrance of the shop.
The corset maker’s pale face greeted Lucy as the old woman unlocked the door and stepped aside to let her in.
“I am sorry.” Lucy began walking toward the stairs. “Have I disturbed your mealtime?”
“No, indeed. But, Gottenyu! It is Christmas Eve and you are back? You were just here. Your order cannot be ready.”
“No, I . . . you see, I am certain that I dropped my lip rouge on the floor. May I . . . ” She gestured up toward the apartment.
“I am watching the child of a friend. He is sleeping and . . . ” The old woman hung back. She did not want to go upstairs with Lucy in tow.
“Just a quick look, Frau Singer. I am sorry.” The woman took a conciliatory tone. “I got home and looked, and . . . it is the only color I have that will match my dress tonight.”
The old woman gave a hesitant nod. Surely it was all right—just a moment to look. “I have not seen it. Of course my eyes for distance are not so good. If it is there, we will find it.”
The parlor looked just as it had this afternoon—perhaps a bit more cluttered. The gas heater glowed red; the room was almost too warm. A little suitcase was beside the dining table—for the baby Frau Singer was watching, no doubt.
“It must be here somewhere.” Lucy pretended to look around the floor as Frau Singer searched beside the sofa.
Lucy knelt and ran her hands over the carpet. Then she glanced toward the open bureau drawer, where little Willie lay soundly asleep.
Her eyes widened. She sat back on her heels and stared at the child. “The baby,” she whispered. “How did he—?” She stared at Frau Singer, who ashen face betrayed everything. Lucy crept nearer to the makeshift cradle. She reached her hand out as if to touch the red curls that tumbled over Willie’s forehead. She had seen this child once, and she could never forget him!
Frau Singer stood very straight. She did not look at Lucy. She did not speak as she attempted to regain her composure. “The child . . . of a neighbor. A neighbor I . . . ”
A strange smile played on Lucy’s lips. She was glad they were here, but she wished they were farther away. No use to pretend she did not know. “Are they all here?” she asked with unconcealed amusement.
“All?” The old woman was still trying to pretend. She was not a good liar. “I cannot think what you mean.”
“Willie.” Lucy jerked her head toward the sleeping baby. “Peter. Karin is the mother’s name, I think. And—” The name of the girl escaped her.
A shudder visibly passed through Frau Singer as she denied everything. No Peter. No Willie. No . . .
Lucy stood slowly and fixed her gaze on the bedroom door. Silence hung like a pall of thick smoke in the room. Lucy walked toward the door, only to be blocked by Frau Singer. “The toilet is not there,” she insisted. “Please . . . ”
Lucy reached out, grasped the doorknob, and opened the door.
The three of them huddled together on the bed. Karin lay beneath the blankets, dark circles of strain beneath her eyes. She wearily gazed back at Lucy.
Peter sat clutching his mother’s hand, defiant and angry.
Marlene, who tried to hide behind Karin, was simply terrified.
“So you are here,” Lucy said with a laugh. “Imagine!”
“What do you want with us?” Peter demanded as he stood to block the others from her view. “We have not hurt anyone! What do you want?”
For a moment Lucy thought he might strike her. Stepping back, she glanced toward Willie. “I wanted to see if you got my note.”
His rage dissolved into astonishment. “You?”
Lucy bowed slightly. Peter stepped aside, revealing the grateful face of Karin gazing up at her. “I thought I might have a better look from here.” Lucy shrugged, embarrassed by her lies. “Forgive me, Madame Singer. Your view . . . ”
Frau Singer did not reply. She opened her mouth and closed it again.
No one could speak. Lucy backed up another step. Frau Singer shook her head as if she were coming out of a dream. “Do you still want your corset?” she croaked.
“Indeed,” Lucy said. She looked at Peter and frowned. “What did you do with the note?”
Before he could answer, Marlene rose up on her knees and blurted out, “I left it for Uncle Otto. I left it on the mirror of the bathroom!”
Peter swung around and slapped her hard across the face. “Now Otto is arrested, and so will she be for helping us! You think that SS officer will not know her handwriting?”
Lucy felt giddy. She looked from the sobbing child to Peter. Finally she turned her eyes back on Baby Willie who slept, undisturbed, through everything. She put a hand on her stomach and hoped her baby slept as sweetly now. The sky was falling. All her plans were crashing down around her head, and yet the baby must not be afraid . . . must not feel what she was feeling at this terrible moment.
Frau Singer took Lucy’s arm, guiding her to a chair.
“Sit. Here, before you fall down.”
***
With the handle of his spoon, Karl Ibsen had scratched out a crude calendar to mark the day of his imprisonment. Although there was no mention of the date, no hint from his jailers, Karl knew that tonight was Christmas Eve.
Cold wind whistled around the corner of the red brick building and in through the high window of his spartan cell. Karl closed his eyes, imagining the voices of faraway carolers on the wind. But it was just that . . . imagination. From there it was only a short step back into the memories of last Christmas.
Helen sitting at the piano in the parlor. Lori rearranging packages beneath the tree. And Karl hefting Jamie up on his shoulder to place the angel on the very top . . .
“Higher, Father! Lift me higher!”
In the darkness of the cell Karl laughed out loud, repeating the laugh of that moment. And then the laugh dissolved into a sob of aching loneliness. He pulled his knees to his chest and buried his face to conceal the sounds of his grief.
Where are my children now, Lord? Without their mother . . . without me? What will come of them? Oh, God! If the Nazis press me at this moment, I will say anything! God, do you hear me? Do not let them come here tonight!
No sooner had Karl finished that prayer than the sound of a key scraped and clanged against the lock of the cell door. As it was thrown back and light flooded the room, the exultant face of the camp commandant grinned drunkenly down at Karl. The strong smell of schnapps entered the cell with him. Four guards hovered in the corridor behind him.
“Well, Prisoner Ibsen! Happy Christmas to you! Of course, we do not call it Christmas any longer. No more little babies in the manger, ja? No one has even noticed the changes. Except maybe fools and old women. Which are you, Pastor Ibsen? A fool or an old woman?” The smirk of derision dissolved into unconcealed hatred. “
Your stubbornness has cost me a leave. Every other commandant in the system got a break but me. We’re waiting to welcome your two brats to Nameless, you see!” He kicked at Karl, causing a spray of straw to fly up in Karl’s face. “Now get up!” He screamed the command, then whirled and left. Two soldiers with bayonets on their rifles rushed into the cell. They leveled the points in Karl’s throat, prodding him to his feet.
Did they notice the dampness on Karl’s cheeks? Had they heard that prayer somehow and broken in to mock it?
It did not matter. God sent a different answer to the heart of Karl Ibsen than the one he had expected. A sudden peace filled him as he staggered out and then down the stinking corridor. Would they kill him now? he wondered. He was unafraid of death. To die would be merciful . . . to spend Christmas with Helen in heaven!
They pushed him through three separate corridors, down a flight of metal steps and out into a courtyard blazing with the yellow glow of floodlights. The wind tore through the thin fabric of Karl’s uniform. He shielded his aching eyes from the searing light. His arm was slapped down by the butt of a rifle as the voice of the commandant screamed at him again. “ACHTUNG! PRISONER IBSEN!”
Karl straightened to attention, eyes forward. Directly before him was a wooden gallows complete with three waiting ropes that swayed eerily in the wind.
“Death,” Karl said with a half smile. Once again the butt of a rifle slammed into his stomach, knocking him to the ground.
He lay gasping for breath. The polished boots of the commandant strolled to his head. Karl could see the reflection of lights and gallows distorted in the shining leather.
“Yes, Prisoner Ibsen. Death.” A short laugh. The reek of schnapps. “But not your death. Ah, no. The Führer does not want your death; he wants your approval. And if not your approval, then at least your acceptance, ja? You understand?”
Karl, still fighting for breath, shook his head. No. Not approval. Not acceptance. Not ever.
“And if I told you your children will be here tonight to dance from our little Christmas tree? Like angels on a string?”
Karl’s head jerked up. He looked in horror at the platform where two figures were being led up the steps. Oh, God! Not my children! Jamie! Lori! His eyes focused on the prison uniforms. No. Not the children. No. These were men. Skeletons with striped rags covering their bones.
Another laugh. “Well, Pastor Ibsen. So you see we have our little joke to wake you up. Not your two little brats. Not tonight anyway. But . . . your children, all the same. Here you see we have brought two of your converts.”
Karl struggled to stand. And again he was shoved down. With a snap of the commandant’s gloved fingers, the bayonet was placed at Karl’s throat.
“Now we will all rise for the benediction, eh, Pastor?” More laughter from all the guards. “Would you like to pray for your children who are about to die? Eh? For Prisoner Richard Kalner? For this young man beside him? Johann . . . Johann something. Ah, well, what’s in a name?”
The courtyard seemed to be in motion. Karl swayed as he stared up at the faces of his friends . . . indeed . . . his family!
“Why?” Karl begged.
“Because you will not confess, Prisoner Ibsen. You will not take the oath of allegiance to our Führer. You are the reason they are dying.”
Karl looked from the face of the commandant to the face of Richard Kalner. Hands tied behind his back, Richard stepped forward to the rope even as his gentle eyes sought Karl’s face.
The doomed man shouted, “Home for Christmas, Karl!” Boots slammed into his legs and he tumbled down. Still he shouted. “Stay true! Stay true, Karl!” A final blow to the stomach silenced him.
Then young Johann cried out, “Jesus wept!” There was no more time to speak. A fist to the cheek and then the noose was dropped around the slender neck. Richard’s limp body was dragged up and the second rope was put in place.
“But there are three ropes!” Karl cried. “Let me! Let me go with them!” He lunged forward, arms extended as if to embrace them. “Let me go too!”
“Stay true! Auf . . . auf Wiedersehn!”
The commandant raised and lowered his hand. The trapdoors sprung open beneath the two men.
And they danced from the barren branch of the Nazi Christmas tree while Karl Ibsen sobbed in agony too deep for sound.
***
The excitement of their imminent escape suddenly vanished from the face of Jacob. Even in the gloom of the church Lori could see his skin grow pale, as though he had seen a ghost.
She touched his arm. He gasped, startled, then managed to turn his eyes away from some horrible thought and focus on her concern.
“Jacob?” she asked gently. “What is it?”
It took him a moment before he found words. “I . . . I know what we are running from,” he stammered. “But what are we escaping to?”
“Freedom,” she answered simply.
“I was . . . it is Christmas, you know . . . and I . . . could not help but wonder . . . ” He averted his eyes from her gaze. “Our parents. My father.” He fought to explain. “I thought for a moment I heard him say my name.” He covered his eyes with his hand.
Was Jacob Kalner crying?
Lori touched his cheek with her fingertips. Tears. She put her arms around him and pulled him against her. He laid his head on her shoulder and wept. He did not know why the tears came, but he cried all the same. He wept quietly so the younger boys sleeping a few feet away would not hear him.
***
In the solitude of his cell, Karl had no one to comfort him. He, too, wept quietly, keeping the satisfaction of his pain from his captors.
He did not question God any longer. God had not done this thing. God had not arranged for Karl to be here in this stinking cell or for him to preside over the deaths of Richard and Johann.
Karl stared at the red brick wall opposite him and remembered the grief and troubles of Job.
“Curse God and die . . . ” The wife of Job spoke to Karl now.
Karl replied aloud. “Though He slay me, yet will I trust Him!”
And then the voice that whispered in his ear changed to an accusation. “You killed those men. One word from you and they would have lived! And the Nazis will do the same to Lori and Jamie! When they are captured, they will be strung up before your eyes!”
Karl groaned and covered his ears, but he could not shut out the voice. He cringed on the floor of the cell against the weight of the accusation.
“Lord!” he cried loudly, no longer thinking of the eavesdropping prison guards. “Help me!” Again and again he called out the name of Jesus. He could no longer recall the Scripture passages that had carried him through so much. “Please!”
Once again the warm peace filled him. He sat up slowly and drew a ragged breath. Tears stopped instantly.
And then he knew . . . he saw it clearly and he spoke, his voice strong. “I know who you are.”
He waited, but there was no reply.
He spoke again. “You accuse me before the Lord, do you not? I know your name. The Accuser. Yes. I heard your voice. You wound me with your darts. But I tell you this!” He shook his fist at the empty air, certain that a dark presence saw his defiance. “My strength is in the Lord! In the Spirit of the Almighty! I have no faith in myself! You think you will have some small victory over the Lord if I give in? Is that what you think? Is that why you accuse me? I tell you that if I fail, then the Lord will have another and another who will fight for Him! Speak for Him! Remain true to Him!”
Karl’s voice was ringing against the walls of the tiny chamber. The slit in the cell door slid back, but Karl was not aware of the eyes that watched him.
He shouted, “The Lord is my strength! I will not be afraid of you! Of what men can do to me! I know who you are! I know my enemy! I will fight you! FIGHT YOU! And you will be ashamed!”
He managed to climb to his feet. He raised his hand to the howling wind outside his window. “It is Christmas! God has com
e among us! The miracle is accomplished! YOU! YOU CANNOT CHANGE IT NOW! The Gate is open!”
***
Through the loosened boards of the basement window, the sounds of the Nazi Christmas procession drifted into the cold underbelly of the dark New Church.
By the glow of one tiny candle, the fugitives checked one another’s clothing one last time.
Jacob wore warm traveling clothes belonging to Lori’s father. The trousers were slightly loose around the waist, but a belt and suspenders held them in place. Pastor Ibsen’s hiking boots were one size too big, but this was remedied by two extra pair of wool socks.
Lori was dressed in a red dirndl skirt trimmed in green lace. It was appropriate for Christmas, of course, but beneath her dress she wore Lederhosen, short leather pants, in case their flight should force them over rough terrain. She also wore her most sturdy shoes, hoping no one would notice that she did not wear her Sunday shoes with her favorite dress.
Jamie and Mark also wore leather knickers and wool socks beneath heavy alpine jackets and sweaters gleaned from Jamie’s chest of drawers. They had only one pair of hiking boots; Jamie wore the boots, and Mark wore his old sneakers. Wisely, Jamie packed another pair of sneakers in his small rucksack, along with extra socks and woolen underwear, two more sweaters, and mittens for everyone. He had heard that Danzig was very cold this time of year. With all of that, he rolled up the black uniform of the Hitler Youth. He had wanted to leave it behind, but Jacob had grabbed it up and stared hard at it as thought he heard some whispered message in its fabric. Then he had thrust it at Jamie and demanded that the vile thing be taken along.
Outside, the crowds sang more songs, but not songs of peace on earth, not songs about the baby in Bethlehem. Ancient carols of pagan legends filled the air of Berlin tonight as the torches of the masses lit the facades of buildings with a hellish glow.
“It is time,” Jacob said, looking up at the ladder they had made out of old boxes. The crates leaned against the damp stone walls of the belly of the church and led up to the broken window.
