Wildflowers of Terezin

by Robert Elmer

  "Hanne! There you are!" A man hurried up behind them; fortunately he was Danish. "I've been looking for you all over."

  She didn't slow down as they pulled into a shadowy patient room, which—from what Steffen could see—looked very much like the one he had stayed in before. He guessed the windows didn't open to the outside world, though.

  "I'll be right back." Hanne excused herself before turning on the lights. It wasn't hard to hear her hushed whispers echo in from the hall.

  "How did you get in here, Aron?" she asked, and now Steffen couldn't miss an unmistakable edge to her voice.

  "Saw you from down the hall," he replied. "Ann-Grete said you'd be here. New patient?"

  She paused. "Something like that. Look, Aron, I'm sorry.I really need to get back to work. And, uh . . . thank you for the flowers."

  "You'll call me soon?" The man sounded rather pushy to Steffen—though he couldn't say why it mattered to him."The rabbi asked for you at Sabbath services."

  "Rabbi Melchior, you mean?"

  "He's still filling in since Rabbi Friediger was arrested. But people were asking about you."

  "I've been busy here at the hospital."

  "And I'm hearing that more and more often, lately. Hanne, I'm concerned."

  Another pause. Steffen almost wished he could see what was happening out in the hallway, instead of having to guess.

  "Nothing to be concerned about," she finally answered, and her voice had changed to something softer, perhaps more defensive. "We can talk when I get off my shift. But right now I'd better walk you to the door. I still don't know how you got in here without someone questioning you. After all, you don't look like a doctor."

  This time he laughed as the voices faded down the hall.

  "What?" he said, "You think the stockbroker's suit gave it away?"

  Steffen still listened closely, but he could not hear her laugh at the lighthearted remark. Only the man, the stockbroker.But now the room grew quiet once more, save the low, husky voice from the corner.

  "What are you here for?"

  Steffen nearly jumped out from under his blanket.

  4

  BISPEBJERG HOSPITAL KØBENHAVN

  SATURDAY AFTERNOON, 18 SEPTEMBER 1943

  Being born in a duck yard does not matter,

  if only you are hatched from a swan's egg.

  —HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

  Steffen could not remember a longer night, trying to pretend he was asleep after he had exhausted his store of encouraging words for the man who saw all kinds of people hiding under his bed and German soldiers just outside the door. Fortunately, this time he was mistaken, but Steffen couldn't convince him of that.

  And Steffen must have finally dozed off, as it turned out, when the next thing he remembered was someone shaking him awake.

  "Steffen, what are you doing here?"

  Steffen woke to see his younger brother Henning's face, only centimeters away. In some ways it was like peering too closely into a mirror: Henning had been given the same large ears, deep blue eyes and long nose, only his hair had turned lighter and wavier. That, and he looked much younger than the four years between them.

  "Henning!" gasped Steffen, shaking off a drowsy headache."You startled me!"

  "Not as much as you startled me, when I heard."

  Steffen's mind spun. "But how? How did you hear?"

  "One of my friends told me there was a shootout yesterday on Nørrebrogade, and that that they carried two German soldiers and a pastor away. He thought he recognized you, but he wasn't sure if you were alive."

  "Well, I was, last time I checked. Did you hear what happened to my bicycle?"

  "Look at you!" Henning pointed at the bandages on Steffen's chin and forehead. "You're nearly left for dead in the street and the only thing you're worried about is your bicycle."

  "Not true. I'm worried about getting out of here, too. But I do like the bike."

  Steffen tried to point with his eyes at his roommate, who looked very much asleep, but one could never be sure.Henning studied the man a moment before turning back to his brother and lowering his voice.

  "Listen, you weren't . . ." He hesitated, as if searching for words. "You weren't actually part of that action, were you? Because if you were, I need to know."

  "I thought you Resistance guys kept that sort of thing secret from each other."

  Henning frowned. "Stop messing around. Were you, or were you not, part of what happened there on Nørrebrogade?"

  Henning looked so expectant, it almost reminded Steffen of the days after their mother died, when his little brother was just eighteen and their father was in Venezuela, or Siam, or wherever in the world his ship had taken him, and between the two of them Steffen was all the father they had. Not that it would have mattered much if Far had been home. But that was a long time ago, and he needed to not think about it so much anymore.

  Still, for a brief moment, Steffen was almost tempted to tell his younger brother that he had been injured in the line of duty, so to speak. That he was . . . doing something for the Resistance, smuggling weapons, taking part in a street demonstration . . . or whatever else Henning and his Underground friends were doing. Instead he sighed and explained what had really happened, and watched as Henning's expression deflated, word by word.

  "That's what I thought," Henning told him after Steffen had spilled all the details he could remember. "For a minute, there—"

  "You needn't worry about me, little brother." Steffen reassured him, pointing to his bandaged forehead. "This is the worst kind of trouble I've gotten myself into. But you of all people know it wasn't my fault."

  "Of course it wasn't." Henning frowned and straightened back up. "And that's precisely the trouble."

  "I don't see how that's a problem." Steffen felt his temperature rising despite all his efforts to keep his voice level and his expression cool.

  "Well, it is. You're too cautious. You're always too cautious.With women you're too cautious. Why else are you not married, yet? With politics you're too cautious. With life in general you're too cautious."

  "Interesting. I don't recall inviting you to come here and insult me."

  Steffen glanced over at his roommate, who had finally stirred a bit as Henning raised his voice. Or perhaps they had both raised their voices. Henning didn't seem to care.

  "I'm not insulting you," he fired back. "It's true. When other people are out in the streets, putting their lives on the line, you're safe inside, preparing your next sermon."

  "Oh, yes. It's quite obvious how safe I've been." Steffen showed off the bandages on his hands to contradict his brother's charges.

  "As you said, it wasn't your fault."

  "And it wasn't my fault the Gestapo fellow came looking for me."

  "Wait a minute, what?" Henning nearly choked. "You didn't tell me anything about Gestapo."

  "You didn't ask." Steffen shrugged. "But he came to the other room I was in, wanting to question me."

  "And?"

  "And the nurse turned him away. Said I was sedated or sleeping and couldn't be disturbed."

  "I take it you weren't."

  "I could hear what was going on. But as soon as he left she wheeled me over here."

  "Smart girl. I'm going to have to thank her, next time I see her."

  "But you don't know who I'm talking about."

  "You mean Nurse Hanne?" Henning smiled. "She's the one who told me where to find you."

  By this time Steffen's roommate was sitting up in bed, fully awake. As the brothers spoke he pointed to the hallway.

  "They're here!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. If that didn't bring a nurse running, nothing would. They looked at each other, then out at the empty hall.

  "Who's here?" Henning finally asked. But the poor man cowered in his bed, breathless and still pointing.

  "Hitler and his bodyguards! Don't you see? Right out in the hallway. They're looking for us. Get out of here while you still can!"

  St
effen lowered his voice once again and leaned toward his brother.

  "He's been saying that kind of thing all night. He sleeps and then he wakes up and shouts something absurd."

  "You don't believe me?" asked his roommate. "Look for yourself!"

  Well, yes, someone had arrived at their door, all right— probably in response to the man shouting. Fortunately it wasn't Hitler or his men, but Nurse Hanne Abrahamsen, holding a bulging paper sack. She didn't smile.

  "He's back, already," she told them. And by now Henning would probably have a good idea who she was talking about. "He might not find you in this ward, but—"

  "I'll take that." Henning took the bag of Steffen's clothes. "We'll be out of here in just a couple of minutes."

  "I'm very sorry, Pastor." She looked straight at Steffen. "I know it's very much too soon for you to leave. But I don't know if the German is going to believe our story."

  "Well, but . . . thanks for everything you're doing. You have no idea how much I appreciate—"

  "I'll take care of him." Henning took charge. "Thanks, Hanne. You know we always appreciate what you all do here at Bispebjerg. Especially when it's my brother. But you'd better go."

  Steffen didn't know what to say as the nurse gave him a knowing look as she nodded and slipped back out of the room. What had she heard of their conversation?

  Meanwhile Henning passed his brother the bag of clothes, helping him first with his ripped white shirt, then his trousers.

  "Better wear your coat over that shirt," said Henning. "Looks like you've been in a battle."

  True. The front of the shirt carried blood stains and several holes from the glass and the street. But when he shrugged on his black jacket a stabbing pain in his side reminded him of where he'd been injured by the glass.

  "Ow!" He winced. "But . . . wouldn't there be some kind of paperwork to complete? I would have to check out."

  "From where, Steffen? You're not even checked in."

  "Right." Steffen had to think it through. No sense in doing something illegal, or anything that would cast him in a less than positive light.

  "No time for that, now," said Henning. "We'll leave by the side entrance."

  "How do you know your way around here so well?" wondered Steffen. Henning didn't answer, so he paused by the door and turned to his roommate.

  "Get out while you can!" cried the man. Steffen smiled and nodded his goodbye.

  "Come on." Henning took him by the arm, and it was all Steffen could do to keep up with him as they practically sprinted through the hallway and pushed through a side entrance. The strange thing was, none of the nurses seemed to give them a second glance.

  Even more strange was the waiting ambulance outside the back door, unlocked and unmanned. It resembled one of the Falck—Danish rescue and fire service—station cars, only older, like a large van with the long hood, painted bright red on the lower half and black on the upper. Henning glanced quickly around the courtyard, then climbed into the driver's seat and motioned for his brother to get in the other side.Steffen shook his head in disbelief.

  "What are you doing?"

  "What does it look like I'm doing?" Henning reached under the mat for a set of keys, then started up the engine. "Now hurry up and get in before somebody sees us."

  "This is crazy!" Steffen stood his ground. "I'm thinking maybe you belong back there in the psychiatric ward, too.And I will not have any part in this."

  "Would you shut up and quit complaining?" Henning jumped out and guided Steffen by the elbow around to the passenger side and nearly shoved him inside. And in his condition, Steffen could hardly resist. But in the process he couldn't help noticing the handle of a small pistol tucked into Henning's belt, hidden only partially by his shirttail.Steffen pointed at the weapon.

  "Do you want to tell me what that's all about?"

  Henning didn't explain as he slammed the passenger door, ran back around and climbed in the driver's side, and put the car in gear.

  "Henning!"

  "What? I didn't steal it, if that's what you're worried about.In fact, I use this thing all the time. It's a 1934 Buick. I like the American cars, don't you? We picked it up for not so much when the Falck rescue people were getting new ones just before the war. So all you have to do is sit still and stay quiet."

  "I'm not talking about the ambulance, Henning, although I have to say it worries me a little. But the gun. I'm talking about the gun. You can't be serious about this. What if we're stopped?"

  "Oh. Well, actually, we won't be stopping for anybody— especially not Germans."

  "But . . . you really wouldn't use it, would you? I've never seen you with a gun, before."

  But now Henning wasn't answering any more questions as he grit his teeth and they wound through the narrow streets of København. And true to his word, Henning almost didn't stop for pedestrians or bicyclists making their way home from work. He followed Lygtenvej along the rail line, then turned underneath the line and weaved through a sea of bicyclists on busy Nørrebro Street and past the park to Sankt Stefan's Kirke—most surely not named for its current pastor.

  Steffen had come this way a thousand times on his bicycle, only never like this. He tried to ignore the pain in his side and the stitches that threatened to burst. And Henning grinned as they turned into the back entrance, screened by several trees.

  "By the way," said Henning, "I'd watch out for that nurse, if I were you."

  "Pardon?" Steffen tried his best to sound confused.

  "Don't play dumb; you know what I mean, Steffen.Anybody could see the way you were keeping an eye on her.And I have to say, it looked mutual to me."

  "You're seeing things."

  "I sure was. But tell me. You know I'm not a theologian or anything like you, but isn't there some kind of church law against pastors dating Jewish nurses?"

  "Oh, brother." Steffen shook his head. "Look, I don't know what you think you saw, but you're way ahead of yourself, or way off. There's nothing to worry about. Nothing at all."

  "Whatever you say, big brother." The grin never left his face as they pulled up in the back alley behind the church with a squealing of tires. "But I'd still be careful. And here we are."

  Henning kept the motor running and the lights off while Steffen actually wondered what his brother had seen. Had it really been that obvious? Henning stepped around outside and opened the passenger door.

  "So for now you just need to get back into your church and lay low," he told Steffen in a low voice. "Take it easy, all right? Don't tell anyone about the shooting thing, if you can help it. Just say you had a bike wreck."

  Steffen could only nod dumbly. What else could he say now?

  "I didn't want to pull up in front of your apartment building and attract a lot of attention," Henning went on. "Are you going to be okay getting home?"

  Steffen nodded through the throbbing pain in his side as he pulled himself out. The early afternoon had not yet warmed up that day, and a hint of fog seemed to hang around the rooftops and towers of the city, waiting to strangle its life. Maybe that's what would happen now, and he looked up at the mist that swirled about the sturdy bell tower of Sankt Stefan's. He had always admired the imposing red brick building, ever since he was a young boy and he'd craned his neck to take it all in.

  "Steffen?" Henning roused him from his dark thoughts.

  "Right." Steffen shivered and stepped away from the ambulance."I guess I know who to call now, if I ever need a ride."

  "I told you to forget it," replied Henning, placing the ambulance back into gear. "Go back to your sermons. Take the people's minds off the war. Stay inside your church. That's where you belong."

  Steffen didn't answer and he didn't even have a chance to thank his brother before the ambulance sped off again and disappeared around a corner, leaving him standing there alone.

  "You really know where I belong?" Steffen asked the quiet street. "I don't even know that."

  At the moment he didn't care to discuss the mat
ter, however.Not even with God and certainly not with his brother.So after unlocking the back entry he slipped into the cool, comfortable embrace of the church building. Maybe Henning was right. Here it smelled of Scriptures and dust, communion wafers and the faintest hint of candle wax. Here he didn't even need to find a light switch; he knew every passage, hallway, and stairway by heart, and if he ever went blind that might be a useful skill. And though he didn't need to, he closed his eyes briefly as he ambled slowly down one hallway, then the next, and painfully mounted the twelve steps up to the next level and the small room he called his office.

  Strange, he thought, noticing for the first time a weak glow spilling out from under the solid oak door. Who would have left the light on?

  He found out in a moment, when Margrethe the janitor scrambled from behind his desk as she saw him opening the door.

  "Margrethe! I wasn't expecting to see you!" He had jumped nearly as much as she had—though with her portly build she would have a more difficult time gaining altitude. He sometimes wondered how she managed to maintain her weight despite food rationing for the past four years of German occupation, and on her salary. Perhaps it was just that way with some women.

  "Oh! Pastor! Nor I you. I mean . . . I was just doing some dusting. I didn't hear you coming." Margrethe stumbled over her feather duster and her words.

  He looked around his comfortable little world to see that everything appeared undisturbed. Bookcases loaded down with Bible commentaries and the occasional murder mystery filled one wall. These were his friends.

  A glass display case housed several souvenirs from his competitive rowing days with the D.S.R., the Danske Studenters Roklub, or Danish Students Rowing Club. His favorite, an inscribed bronze rowlock, took its place next to all the little rocks he'd collected from different places around Danmark: a small jet-black stone from the northern tip of Skagen, chalk from the white cliffs of Møen, a round gray rock from the remote island of Bornholm. These were his memories.