Wildflowers of Terezin

by Robert Elmer

  "Not this conversation again." This time Henning's face flushed as he ran his fingers through his hair, and turned back again. "But you're right about one thing. Things are getting worse. I've heard the Nazis are making plans to round up every Jew in Danmark."

  "No, they wouldn't dare." Steffen crossed his arms. "This isn't Poland. This is their model protectorate. They've promised not to do that sort of thing here."

  "You are so naïve." Henning slapped his own forehead with the palm of his hand.

  "Now, wait just a minute. You—"

  "No, you listen. You think you're being safe and neutral, and you don't even see what's happening. You think you see it, but you don't. And you know what? One of these days you're going to be riding your bicycle down the street again, and they're not going to miss."

  "Who are we talking about, now? Who exactly is they?"

  "The Nazis. The sympathizers. Doesn't matter. Meanwhile you just go ahead, keep telling your people to 'Let every soul be subject unto the higher powers,' and you say they need to keep their heads inside their shells. Right? Isn't that what you say? The Nazis won't hurt us. They'll get tired of little Danmark and eventually they'll go home. Listen to yourself! Well, it's not working out that way. The only way these Nazis are going home is if we show them the door and push them out."

  Steffen paced in a circle as he tried to make sense of it all.

  "All right," he finally said, "so now I'm confused."

  "You got that part right."

  "Nej. I'm confused because just the other day you said I should stay in my church. Stick to my sermons. Isn't that what you said?"

  "Did I say that? Well, after what just happened to that boy, I think maybe I'm changing my mind. Maybe I was wrong."

  "My little brother, wrong? I've never heard those two words in the same sentence before."

  Henning only smiled for a moment, then returned to his serious self.

  "Ja, well, lately the Nazis are shooting first, asking questions later. Everyone can see they're getting desperate. Our people have to respond."

  "But not like this. Not with violence."

  "Well, if you don't choose a side, if you just stand in the middle of the tracks, you're going to get run over by this train, brother."

  "Henning, you really don't understand my position.You—"

  "Nej, this time you're the one who doesn't understand, Pastor. If you keep playing the middle, next time whoever's shooting in the street might think you're a stikker. And you know what they do to them."

  "That's ridiculous. How could anyone possibly think I'm collaborating with the Germans?"

  "I'm just saying, 'He who is not with me is against me,' right? Isn't there something in your Bible like that?"

  Steffen didn't like the way his brother said your Bible.And that was about all of a lecture he cared to hear, for now.This wasn't what he came here for. In fact, what did he come here for? To look up a book, the way he often did? To convince his brother that working in the Resistance was getting too dangerous? He stepped over to the window and pulled out a volume of Kierkegaard's Enten/Eller from the display. Either/Or. Funny that it would have a place in the window next to a collection of fiction, like Jensen's The Long Journey or Dinesen's Out of Afrika. Perhaps a customer had replaced it there without thinking.

  "Hey, don't touch that!" Henning stepped out from behind his counter and grabbed the book from Steffen's hand before replacing it carefully in the stand where it had been propped up.

  "My apologies. I thought you sold books, here."

  That would be more than enough arguing for one day.Steffen started for the door, but his brother held him back by the arm.

  "Look, Steffen, I'm sorry. But the book has to stay right there in the window." He paused and sighed, a hand on his hip. "It's a signal, okay? When Kierkegaard is in the window, it's clear for my contacts to come inside."

  And do what? Steffen paused to let his brother's words sink in, and he wondered what else was going on right there in the shop, right under his nose. What about the other customers, who still seemed absorbed in their reading? Maybe they all worked for the Resistance, as well.

  "What if it's not clear?" he asked, wishing instantly that he had not.

  "H. C. Andersen."

  "Kierkegaard clear, Andersen away. Come in for theology, stay away from fairy tales."

  "Something like that." But Henning's expression darkened and he pressed his lips together the way he always did when he was in trouble. All right, then. Steffen didn't need to know any more. He didn't want to know.

  "I shouldn't have come, Henning," he finally said. "I was just wanting to talk some sense into you. But after our conversation, and what happened the other day, I can see I've made a mistake."

  "You said what you had to say, big brother. I appreciate that, believe it or not. And look, I . . . I shouldn't have said what I did. I was out of line. It's just that when you start talking at me the way Far used to do . . . you know how that is."

  Unfortunately, Steffen did know. And he would take that as an apology, though he wasn't sure how much he liked the reference to their father. By that time he noticed a man stopping by the window outside, tugging the brim of his hat a little more tightly over his eyes before glancing toward the Kierkegaard book, the briefest of glances and nothing more.

  "I really should be going," Steffen told his brother. "Take care."

  "I hope you do too, Steffen."

  This time Steffen tried not to look at the man as they slipped past each other in the doorway, one coming and the other going as the little bell on the front door jangled with a cheer that seemed so clearly out of place.

  So each brother clearly thought the other was in greater danger, did they? Steffen could see that now. He just couldn't quite see who was right this time.

  9

  OFFICE OF THE GERMAN SHIPPING AGENT, KØBENHAVN

  TUESDAY, 28 SEPTEMBER 1943

  Duckwitz is not a well-known name, though it deserves to be.

  It is the name of a good and true-hearted man.

  —EMILIE ROI

  Anna, would you please look again for a telegram before you leave for the day?"

  Georg Duckwitz checked his Swiss watch as he paused from his pacing. Only two minutes to five. If any special instructions were going to arrive from Berlin, they would have been here long before now.

  "Still nothing, sir." His office manager looked in from the reception area. "Do you want me to—"

  "That's all right." He tried to smile as if nothing were wrong. "Why don't you just go home for the day? You've been working hard."

  She seemed to think about it for just a moment before nodding politely and retrieving her purse out of her desk by the door.

  "Thank you, sir. I'll be on my way, then. And . . . I'm sure your message from Berlin will arrive tomorrow."

  "I'm sure it will." Again Duckwitz did his best to appear casual, as if it was just another Tuesday evening, at the end of just another day. But he knew better. As soon as Anna had shut the door behind her he reached for a cigarette to calm his nerves. But his right hand shook as he flicked his lighter, and he managed to pace only to his window and back before snuffing his smoke in the ashtray on the corner of the desk.He jumped at the sound of the telephone and ran out to grab the call at Anna's desk. Perhaps—

  "Office of the Shipping Agent," he said, clearing his throat."Duckwitz speaking."

  "Georg!" His wife's voice sounded more distant than he would have thought, for just a cross-city connection.

  "Oh!" He sighed. Without a telegram and without a phone call to the contrary, now his decision loomed that much closer. He stared up at the portrait of Adolph Hitler on the wall above the reception desk, and he had to force himself to believe that der Führer would not now be listening in, or watching. Hopefully, neither would anyone else—including his wife.

  "Georg? You sound disappointed it was me."

  "Nein, of course not. I was just expecting . . . ah, well. I w
as hoping for a call from Berlin."

  "I see. You're always expecting a call from Berlin."

  Not like this one, he thought as his wife went on.

  "So what happened to Anna? Was she not working today?"

  "I told her to go home early."

  "On a Tuesday? Well, that's all very nice of you, but how about letting the shipping agent come home, for a change? Tell him his wife is cooking his favorite tonight for his birthday."

  That kind of talk was almost enough to soothe his jangled nerves. Almost.

  "Schnitzel und spätzle?" he asked, his mouth watering at the thought of how his wife used to prepare a tasty breaded pork tenderloin. But with all the rationing, how long had it been since she'd been able to prepare his lieblingsessen? He would not ask where she had been able to find such a delicacy.And spätzle! These Danes had nothing like it—doughy noodles cooked in boiling bouillon. He could almost taste it now.

  "Of course, schnitzel und spätzle, silly. But I'm not going to bring it to the office, or I'd probably be robbed on the street.You'll have to come home if you want some. Dinner, I mean! You are coming home soon, aren't you?"

  "Ja, of course. Very soon." He bit his lip and glanced at his watch once again, calculating how quickly he could complete his errand—if he was to carry it out. "But Liesl, I have to—"

  "What? You give me one good reason not to throw this schnitzel out the back window for the local cats to carry off."

  "No, please. It's an important meeting I need to attend first.It won't take long at all. I should be home by . . . perhaps seven o'clock at the latest."

  "Seven." His wife groaned on the other end of the phone."You're always working late, these days. Can't it wait until tomorrow?"

  "I'm sorry, schatzi, just not this time."

  He tried to apologize once more, but still his vague excuses didn't seem to appease his wife. He didn't blame her. But as he hung up he couldn't help staring at the portrait of Hitler, and his forehead throbbed with pain.

  Am I sure about this? he asked himself, wondering what would happen if he simply went home to his wife to enjoy a good meal, well-deserved. What would happen if he simply remembered his civil service oath? Herr Hitler's eyes seemed to follow him around the office, as did the words:

  "I swear I shall be loyal and obedient to Adolf Hitler, the Führer of the German Reich and people, respect the laws, and fulfill my official duties conscientiously, so help me God."

  So help me . . . Back at his desk his heart pounded in his chest as he fingered the confidential report from Werner Best and pulled on an overcoat from the coat tree. Of all people, Best must never know. The problem was, Duckwitz had already told his wife too much. What if she was questioned?

  Nein. It was too late and he knew what he had to do, no matter the cost. He felt his face flush as he thought of what would happen if he did nothing.

  Nein! So he snapped off his desk lamp, breaking the little knob in the process. And he hesitated for only a moment, the broken knob in his hand, before tossing it aside and heading for the door.

  And I cannot tell her, he reminded himself. Not ever.

  By that time he also decided it best to leave behind his documents, his proof of what was to come. They would have to take his word for it. But he couldn't help rehearsing what he would say as he hurried out of his office and around the corner to catch the streetcar that would take him as close as he could get to 22 Rømersgade. He hopped on and found a seat near the back, out of the way.

  If he didn't meet anyone's eyes, and if he didn't open his mouth, he thought perhaps he might be mistaken for a businessman or a banker on his way home after another day at the office. Perhaps. He hunched behind yesterday's copy of the Times, scanning the bland headlines that revealed little truth, not reading a word and doing all that he could to slow the racing of his heart. But he could not. An older woman looked at him curiously from across the aisle as he produced a monogrammed handkerchief and mopped his forehead. Yes, it was a bit warm in the streetcar, was it not? She would not know what "GFD" stood for, even if she could make out the initials.

  "Oh, here!" Duckwitz didn't mean to call out, and he needn't have worried as the distracted conductor brought their coach to a jerky stop. Duckwitz wasted no more time but pushed outside and gulped the cool evening air to calm himself down. It didn't work. He checked his watch and hurried toward the Labour Library building where he was certain his contact would be talking politics.

  Hans Hedtoft, a leading member of the powerful Social Democrat party, would still be here, huddled with other Danish politicians in one of the meeting rooms surrounding the Labour Library. Yes, even at this hour. Because ever since the Danish government had resigned in protest last month, Hedtoft practically lived in the smoky huddles of emergency meetings and crisis councils. So Duckwitz pushed through an outer lobby as if he belonged there. Only now he ran the risk of someone recognizing him. Never mind.

  "May I help you, sir?" A young woman, perhaps a receptionist of some kind, intercepted him as he approached one of the closed meeting room doors. She obviously didn't know who he was, which was just as well.

  "Yes, actually, you may. I assume Herr Hedtoft is in that meeting." He made his best guess and nodded toward the nearest closed door. "Will you please inform him I'll be waiting for him over there?"

  He pointed toward a far corner where he hoped they might attract a minimum of attention.

  "Er . . . yes, of course, sir. Whom shall I say will be waiting?"

  But Duckwitz had already set off to find a discreet place to sit in the far corner of the library, beyond several meeting tables and on the other side of a bank of shelves. He pulled up pair of small armchairs and told himself over and over to calm down. And he waited. Two minutes later the Secretary of the Social Democrats stood over him with a puzzled frown.

  "They said you wanted to see me, Georg?"

  "Sit down, please." Duckwitz tried to contain himself, though he still felt as if he was hyperventilating. Hedtoft must have noticed.

  "You look pale." Hedtoft looked closer as he slipped into the other seat. "Is everything all right?"

  "Not exactly." He shook his head but managed to keep his voice down. Still, he could not look the other man in the eyes. Instead he stared off into the darkening window, and he gripped his hands to keep them from trembling. Surely Hans Hedtoft would be able to tell.

  "You're not well. Here, perhaps something to drink?"

  "No, no." Duckwitz finally turned back to the conversation and cleared his throat. "Listen to me. The disaster is going to take place."

  "The disaster," echoed Hedtoft, obviously not following.He would in a moment. Meanwhile he rubbed his high temples in confusion as Duckwitz continued.

  "That's right," he said. "All the details have been planned.Two ships will be in the harbor to transport five thousand.Trains for the remaining twenty-five hundred. Unless you do something in the next forty-eight hours, your poor fellow citizens are going to be deported to an unknown destination.All the names and addresses are known."

  Now Hedtoft nodded slowly as his eyes widened. By this time he had to understand. Did Duckwitz have to spell it out for him even more explicitly?

  "I'd always suspected something like this would happen," said the Dane. "But when?"

  "October first, starting at ten o'clock in the evening. It's calculated precisely so they'll all be in their homes for their holiday. Apparently, it's one of the major Jewish celebrations, whatever they call it."

  "Just three days . . ." Hedtoft spoke as if his head was spinning."How will we—"

  "I've already spoken with the Swedish government. They've agreed to take in as many refugees as you can transport across the Sound."

  "I see. But over seven thousand! I assume no one else knows? What about Best?

  "No one else." Duckwitz shook his head no, which left Hedtoft to marvel at the sheer lunacy of what they were discussing in a corner of the comfortable Labour Library.

  But
there, now he'd gone and said everything. What else was there to be spilled? Or how much more treason could there be? Yet Duckwitz now felt a strange lightness, as if a load had been lifted and he could walk out of the library without ducking his head in shame. He accepted Hedtoft's strong handshake, and he could already sense the Danish politician's mind moving ahead.

  "I'll pass the word along immediately," said Hedtoft, still pumping his hand. "Henriques will want to know; he's the head of their community. And Dr. Marcus Melchior, the acting chief rabbi at the Krystalgade Synagogue."

  "Whatever is appropriate. I leave it up to you."

  Duckwitz nodded as his mind drifted to schnitzel und spätzle.

  "I can't tell you how much we appreciate what you've done."

  Hedtoft understood what the information might cost.

  "I'd best be going," Duckwitz answered, finally turning away."My wife is holding dinner for me."

  "Yes, of course." As they parted ways Hedtoft flashed one of the warm smiles that helped make him one of the most popular Danish leaders in the city. "But if anyone asks . . ."

  He paused as Duckwitz looked back over his shoulder.

  "I will have absolutely no recollection of this conversation."

  10

  KRYSTALGADE SYNAGOGUE, KØBENHAVN

  WEDNESDAY, 29 SEPTEMBER 1943

  There may be times when we are powerless to prevent injustice,

  but there must never be a time when we fail to protest.

  —ELIE WIESEL

  So you're feeling a little guilty, are you?"

  Hanne's mother held on to her arm as they walked down Krystalgade toward the synagogue for the Wednesday morning service. But what kind of a question was that?

  "Mor! I'm not coming to the service because I'm feeling guilty. I'm coming to the service because I have today off, and because you asked me."