by Robert Elmer
It also took that long for the other man's words to register:
You're better off without her.
No. He clenched his fist. Not now, he wasn't. And he surely was not better off in So what is this place, compared to anywhere else he could think of.
He examined the cell. Two wide wooden benches ran the length of each side, each covered with a threadbare gray blanket that would barely cover a man's shoulders in the draft. A foul-smelling bucket had been stowed at the far end, under the other bench, its purpose all too clear. And on the other bench, a bearded man in a ripped T-shirt and dirty gray trousers sat up against the wall, studying him the way a visitor to the zoo might watch a caged monkey.
"So how do you like your accommodations?" asked his cellmate."Was she worth it?"
Steffen swallowed his pain and straightened up, determined not to answer questions, especially not cheeky ones.Instead he would ask a few questions of his own. He pretended he had not heard.
"How long have I been out?" he asked. "Do you know?"
The other man shrugged. "They brought you in last night."
That wasn't much of an answer, but the man went on.
"You're just in time for breakfast, though. Although I don't think it rates being called 'breakfast.' That's far too dignified a name for the slop they serve us."
"Hmm." Steffen's stomach didn't feel as if it had missed anything, only ached with the vague uncertainty that might come after trauma—such as having been hit head on by a fast-moving freight train. "So what is this place?"
When the man grinned he revealed a gap in his front teeth, even in the shadows. A badge of honor in the Resistance struggle perhaps. Or perhaps he just needed to visit a dentist.
"You really don't know? Either that, or you're a better actor than the last poor fool they put in here with me."
"I'm no actor."
"So you say. But if you want to survive in this place for more than twenty-four hours, you'd better develop a few acting skills. The last fellow never did."
"What do you mean? What happened to him?"
"They took him out and shot him. And that's what's going to happen to you, unless you learn."
"You're not serious."
"You don't think so? Then you're just as foolish as he was."
Nothing seemed to bother the man. Except that now when Steffen had a closer look, he could make out a disturbing collection of cuts and bruises on this man's face, the black eyes and the jagged cuts on his cheeks. One eye, in fact, appeared nearly swollen shut. And still he grinned.
"So why haven't they killed you?" asked Steffen, suddenly feeling bold—or more foolish than he should have been. The other man shrugged.
"Oh, I suppose they'd very much like to. Maybe they just haven't found out the information they're looking for, yet.Not that I have it, you understand."
Steffen shook his head, marveling at the composure—or the insanity—of this man.
"You never told me where we are," Steffen told him.
"Forgive me." The man spread out his arms in a grand, sarcastic gesture. "Welcome to Vestre Prison, located right here in beautiful København and operated by the ever-efficient Geheime Staatspolizei, or for you whose German is a little rusty, the Gestapo."
"Thanks for the clarification."
"Lars Hansen." He extended his hand without getting up."Of course, that's not my real name. If I told you my real name I'd have to kill you. And judging by the size of your skinny little neck, that would be a simple task."
Steffen shuddered and blinked back his first reaction to run away from the man, any way possible. Given where he now found himself, however, perhaps he should not have been so surprised at the company.
"Pastor Steffen Petersen." He reached across the narrow aisle that separated the two sleeping benches, barely enough for a man to walk. "That's my real name."
The man nearly crushed his hand.
"So are they actually rounding up pastors these days?" asked Lars.
"No, I, ah . . ." Steffen was about to explain what had happened to him the night before, when a dark thought occurred to him. Who was this man, really? He could just as easily be a German sympathizer, planted here to collect incriminating information from new, unsuspecting prisoners. Couldn't he?
And if that were possible, Steffen decided he should probably not mention his brother Henning's name, for fear of implicating him.
"You . . . what?" asked the other man.
"Actually, I'd rather not say."
"You'd rather not say?" Lars Hansen laughed bitterly before collapsing into a spasm of dry, evil-sounding coughs. "Now there's a bold statement, considering who you are and where you're at."
"I'm sorry," Steffen told him. "Undskyld. It's nothing personal.Perhaps you'd like to talk about something a little more . . . well, you know, safe?"
"You catch on quickly. I don't know you, and you don't know me. You don't tell who you know, and I don't mention my friends, either. We keep it that way. And in a God-forsaken place like this, we both stay alive. For now."
Steffen was about to correct his new cellmate about his use of "God-forsaken" when the man rolled off the bed with surprising speed, grabbing Steffen's collar and pinning him to the bench. Startled, Steffen gasped for breath.
Was this how it would all end?
"But if you're a stikker," he told Steffen, "and they put you here to get information out of a decent, law-abiding citizen like me, then I'd be afraid for my life, if I were you. Forstår du?"
"Ja, I understand." Steffen gasped like a herring out of water, gripping the other man's wrists and kicking his feet helplessly.Finally Lars Hansen—or whatever his name was—eased up enough for Steffen to catch his breath.
"But I'm not a stikker," Steffen gasped. "I'm not the bad guy here. I'm the pastor at Sankt Stefan's Kirke, believe me."
Lars spit on the floor as he released Steffen with a shove.
"Believe you? Ha! That's how I got here, by believing people who would have sold their own mothers to the Nazis, if there was any profit in it. I don't believe anybody anymore."
"I see. Then I'll try to stay out of your way."
Which, given the confines of this tiny cell, might not be easy. But Steffen thought he still might clear the air.
"But look, ask me something theological, or something about the Bible. I'll prove to you I am who I say I am."
"I don't ask theological questions." Lars squinted at him warily. "And it doesn't matter who you are, anyway."
All friendliness aside, Lars Hansen turned away in his cot and acted asleep. What else was there to do in this place? A cold draft whipped though the cell, making Steffen shiver as he closed his own eyes and tried to piece together the events that had brought him here. His mind would only stumble here and there. So he wrapped the blanket around his shoulders and rocked back and forth, ignoring his headache until a jangle of keys in the lock outside their door brought him awake once more.
Two guards stood at the entry, silhouetted in the light from a single lightbulb hanging from the hallway ceiling. While the second guard covered his partner with a drawn Luger pistol, the first one drew out a pair of handcuffs, pointed directly at Steffen and motioned for him to put his hands out.
"You!" he grunted the way Steffen might have expected a prison guard to grunt. "Come with us. Now."
Guard one snapped a pair of cold metal handcuffs on Steffen's left wrist, then in one movement briskly twirled him around and attached the right wrist behind Steffen's back. Steffen had to wonder how this fellow had become so adept at inflicting that kind of pain.
"Nice knowing you, Pastor," said Lars, sounding almost as cold as the guards that marched Steffen down the hallway."I'd be doing some praying now, if I were you. Which I'm not, fortunately."
Steffen had no answer, not the way he always had when he'd visited people at Bispebjerg Hospital. He just stumbled ahead of the guards down a long hallway lined with cell doors.At nearly every door a waste bucket waited to be emp
tied.
"Where are you taking me?" he asked, fighting to keep his balance. The guards would not answer as they prodded him on. Perhaps, he thought, they intended to take him out and shoot him, like the other roommate. He found himself reciting, over and over, the words to a psalm they often read aloud together in church.
"Cast me not away from thy presence; and take not thy Holy Spirit from me."
Yet despite the reassuring words, it seemed to Steffen that God had never felt quite so far away. Someone groaned from the other side of a locked door, and without thinking Steffen slowed to listen. A guard jabbed him in the back with the end of his pistol.
"Keep walking and don't slow down," said the guard. Two steps later and halfway down the hall, Steffen couldn't help but cry out in pain at a particularly vicious jab.
But before falling to his face he noticed what the guards did not see: a lone hand, extending through the tiny access door, silently blessing him with its reach. Even so, Steffen couldn't help tripping and planting his face on the cold stone floor. He grunted in pain.
"Up!" yelled the guard. "Get up!"
Steffen would have been glad to comply, but with two hands clamped behind his back, his sense of balance had abandoned him. So other cruel hands yanked him by the collar to his feet.
"Please, where are you taking me?" he asked, taking care not to fall again. The guards didn't answer, but at the end of the hallway they shoved him through a doorway to a staircase and then down a flight of stairs to another level and finally to a plain but large corner office.
From behind a large gray steel desk a gray-suited German officer pivoted in his chair and looked them over with a stony glare that nearly matched the one of Hitler from the portrait on the far wall. Just inside the door the lead guard stopped short and clicked his heels.
"We've brought the prisoner you requested, Herr Sturmbannführer."
"Very well." The officer nodded at the two guards and waved them off as if they had just flown into his picnic."Leave us for now."
The two guards clicked their heels once more and aboutfaced out of the office, closing the door behind them and leaving Steffen to stand alone before the Sturmbannführer. As with every other German he'd met, the man obviously took his position quite seriously. His officer's jacket was decorated with a number of impressive-looking blood-red ribbons and such, as ostentatious as the glint in his steely gray eyes and the military cut of his trim blond hair.
"Pastor Petersen." He folded his hands in front of him on the desk, where everything appeared arranged and just so."How good of you to come on such short notice. Of course, it's an unpleasant surprise to see you here. But please, won't you sit down?"
The officer pointed to a nearby wood chair but Steffen shook his head and turned slightly to reveal his cuffed wrists.
"Ah, did they really do that to you?" The officer sounded surprised. "My apologies. I'm sure they were just following standard procedure. In any case, perhaps it's good that you're here, so we can work out a few issues. Face-to-face."
Steffen had no idea what issues he had to work out with a Nazi officer, but he stood silently and waited as the man continued.
"Forgive me, Pastor. My name is Wolfschmidt, and I've been told you were detained last night. Is that correct?"
Steffen decided he could nod his agreement to an obvious question whose answer everyone would already know, as Wolfschmidt continued.
"I'm also told you interfered with the lawful apprehension of a fugitive? Now, I'm confused about that, how a person such as you could find yourself in such an awkward position.Perhaps you could enlighten me, if you would."
Despite the practiced civility of the man's question, Steffen knew this wolf would bare his teeth at any moment. So he braced himself and kept silent.
"Well?" The man with the piercing eyes stared at him for a moment and tented his fingertips as his jaws worked and strained. But then he seemed to pull back from the brink with a dismissive smile.
"I can understand your reluctance. You hardly know me, after all. But as a matter of fact, you and I are in the same line of business, are we not? We are both in the business of cleansing this bland little country of Jews. We just need to coordinate our efforts a bit more closely."
Still Steffen kept silent. His gaze shifted to the view out the window, where red-tiled roofs and church towers spread out across his city. If he knew which way to look, he might be able to make out the spire of his church, perhaps five kilometers to the north. Still Wolfschmidt wasn't giving up his attempt to cajole his victim into talking.
"We influence people, do we not? Help them make the right decisions. Up until just a few weeks ago, I understand you did an outstanding job of that. What happened?"
Steffen felt the confusion growing.
"Ah, you're wondering how I know." Wolfschmidt smiled and leaned back in his chair. "But actually, that's not the question at hand. The real question is, how can we restore your good reputation and help you do what's right in the sight of God and the Führer? Or, pardon me, God and the King? That's what I'd like to help you with."
Steffen couldn't help it, any longer. "I'm not sure I understand."
"Really? Think about it for a moment. Up until a few weeks ago, you consistently advised your parish to cooperate fully with the authorities. This is as it should be. You used your position of influence to help others come to the same conclusion. Am I right so far?"
Steffen pressed his lips together, and the other man smiled as he went on.
"I see that I am. But more recently, through some unfortunate series of events, you've stumbled into the wrong side of a criminal operation. Perhaps you weren't fully aware of the danger; I'll give you credit for being naïve. It could very well be that you've been used. So now I'd like to help you recover your former influence and good sense, Pastor. Is that not clear enough? The only thing is, I will need your cooperation to get this unfortunate mess sorted out."
"I see." It seemed to Steffen that keeping silent wouldn't help him any longer.
"Do you?" Now Wolfschmidt's voice rose and his cheeks reddened as he leaned forward. "Do you really? No, I don't think you yet understand the gravity of your situation. Because normally I would simply have a person in your situation shot and be done with it. I still might. Perhaps you're aware; we do a lot of that at this facility. Are you understanding this a little better, now?"
Steffen tried to swallow but could not.
"I think so," he squeaked.
"You think so? You think so?" Now his face boiled in rage."What is it about being shot that you don't understand?"
He reached into the top drawer of his desk, pulled out an evil-looking Luger pistol, and pointed it at Steffen's head.
"Would you like for me to demonstrate to you what it means? I think in many respects it might be simpler if—"
"No, I understand."
Steffen fought the urge to close his eyes and duck. In a way, though, he was glad his hands were still cuffed behind him, shaking but out of sight. Wolfschmidt seemed to consider his options for a moment before frowning and carefully setting his weapon back down.
"I knew you would. But I'll tell you this: We need to know everyone you worked with or had contact with."
By this time Steffen's heart beat out of his chest. He could not imagine what would happen if he revealed Henning's name.
"Everyone!" shouted Wolfschmidt.
"I . . ." Steffen fumbled for words. "They came to my door.The Jews. I didn't know them, and I didn't ask their names.They asked for help." He kept as close to the truth as he dared, hoping his embellishments would not show. But though he also knew how inexperienced he was at deception, he pressed on. "So I arranged to drive them, and we found a fisherman."
"The name?"
"He never told me his name. They all said that names would only get someone in trouble."
"Yes, of course. Convenient, for the time being. Perhaps we can work out an arrangement where you'll introduce us—in the near future?"
"Well . . ." For a moment Steffen wondered what would happen if he simply went along—if he made Wolfschmidt believe he would cooperate. "I felt sorry for them, but I see now . . ."
"What?" Wolfschmidt snarled. "What do you see now?"
Steffen paused a moment before answering, considering his options. What else could he say?
"I see now what a mistake it was."
"You do? Excellent. I'm pleased to hear that."
Wolfschmidt had the uncanny ability to switch from a polite gentleman to a boiling rage—and back—at will. By this time the officer grinned as he got up from his chair and stepped around to the front of his desk. "And with that understanding in mind, what would you like to tell your congregation about the Resistance movement?"
"I'd like to tell them that . . ." Steffen swallowed hard, working past the huge lump in his throat. ". . . that it's a mistake. That Scripture requires us to obey the king and the authorities."
"Ah, I hear a sermon coming on, don't you? A good one.Perhaps I'll even visit your church sometime to hear how you're going to express this conviction. But just for clarification, who are those authorities?"
"You are, Herr Sturmbannführer."
"How kind of you to say so."
Steffen shivered as he spoke the words, cold in the realization that he had just stepped off a cliff. His head spun, dizzy with the feeling of betrayal—to save his own life, perhaps, and to save Henning's. But betrayal, nonetheless.
And he knew from the empty feeling where his heart used to be that he'd just lost a large piece of his soul.
By this time Wolfschmidt had strolled around behind Steffen, and Steffen could feel the warm breath on the back of his neck. It smelled of stale cigarettes. He didn't dare turn, but stood straight and still as the officer leaned in closer.
