Wildflowers of Terezin

by Robert Elmer

  During the afternoon she tried to press a wet sponge to the little girl's lips, but the fever had taken so much from her, and she didn't even open her eyes. Now her mother waited outside, asking questions and looking hopeful, holding her baby.

  "We're doing all we can for her," said Hanne, which was the horrible, shameful truth. And the feeling of helplessness overwhelmed Hanne like nothing ever had before. Could she tell her anything else? There would be no hiding from it.Minutes later Hanne knelt by the little cot where they'd laid Bela and whispered the only thing that came to mind, lines from one of the poems in the book Steffen had given her. A poem about a flower, but she thought perhaps much more than that.

  "So I bend down to the ground, and gently kiss your fragile bloom, a hint of mercy's throne, thou little anemone, how great is our Creator!"

  The words seemed strange coming from her mouth, rhyming and musical, almost like a prayer or perhaps of the same stuff. In any case, it was the best she could do. In fact little Bela actually did seem to stop shivering for a time, while a more peaceful look replaced the tortured one she'd been wearing since the night before. Hanne could not help but kiss the fragile little girl's feverish forehead—and she gasped in surprise as she did.

  "Doctor Janecek!" she cried. "This one's fever has broken, I think!"

  She felt Bela's forehead once again and smiled in her excitement—but only for a brief moment, until she realized what had actually happened. It took the doctor only a glance to see for himself, and he sadly shook his head.

  "I'm sorry, Hanne," he said. "I will tell the mother."

  Hanne could only bury her face in the doctor's shoulder, sobbing in a manner contrary to her professional training.But she could not help it.

  "No, please," she said, finally pulling up straight and looking him in the eye. "I will tell her. This is something I need to do."

  He looked as if he might use his authority to insist, but instead nodded quietly. And five minutes later she almost wished she hadn't, as she stood with Bela's mother on the sidewalk outside the clinic.

  "Please," she took the woman gently by the hand. "Perhaps we should find someplace where it's more quiet."

  "That's just it!" Bela's mother shook with frustration, causing the baby in her arms to begin fussing again. "There's nowhere in this forsaken prison city where there aren't people upon people upon people. But just tell me now: How is Bela doing?"

  Hanne breathed hard, feeling lightheaded. Nothing in nursing school had ever prepared her for this kind of conversation.

  "I'm so sorry, but Bela died. There was nothing we could do."

  The woman looked at Hanne with a kind of indescribable horror and rage.

  "You're lying!" Her voice rose to a panic. "She was fine just yesterday!"

  "Sometimes these things happen quickly. And you know I cared for her too, like a little sister."

  "You didn't care for her. If you cared for her, you would have saved her!"

  The words cut deep.

  "I'm telling you we did everything we could." Hanne tried to give the other woman a hug. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

  Still Bela's mother would not be consoled; she pushed Hanne away.

  "No! I trusted you with her life," she told Hanne, the grief twisting her voice. "And you failed me. Get away from me.Væk! Get out of my sight!"

  By this time the little baby in the woman's arms screamed and fussed with nearly as much fury as its mother. Hanne had no choice but to turn away, wishing they could have grieved together, wishing she had never told anyone she was a nurse.

  29

  OFFICE OF THE DANISH RED CROSS, KØBENHAVN

  MONDAY MORNING, 18 OKTOBER 1943

  Danmark, defiled and bound, here we've sworn an oath:

  That we will never rest until we have won your freedom.

  —KAJ MUNK, IN "DANMARK, OUR LIFE"

  Steffen nodded at the receptionist in the Danish Red Cross office and tried to look patient. Perhaps he should have worn his clerical collar, after all, if it would have gotten him in to see Herr Madsen a little more quickly.

  "Yes, he'll be expecting me," Steffen assured the efficient young lady behind the desk.

  "Hmm." She consulted the calendar on her desk once more. "I don't see your name here, Herr Petersen. However, Herr Madsen usually arrives at nine, so if you'd like to take a seat for a couple of minutes, I'll see what—oh!"

  Steffen turned to see Poul Madsen walk in through the office door just then, briefcase in hand and the wind at his back. He paused for a moment to grab some messages, then had to set down his briefcase before he could accept Steffen's outstretched hand. Steffen thought the man telegraphed his confusion rather effectively.

  "Steffen Petersen." Steffen hoped the man would remember."My father is Mikkel Petersen?"

  It took a moment, but finally Herr Madsen's face lit up in recognition. "Mikkel! Of course! I knew there was something about your face. Although the last time I saw you, you were probably not ten years old, but you had a little pair of binoculars and you kept an eye on the birds. I do remember that. Do you still?"

  "Well, in the city, you know. I have a feeder outside my office window, nothing more."

  "Ja, ja. I know what you say. But please come in. Have a seat. What brings you here?"

  Steffen smiled as the pleasant, round-looking man brought him into his cozy office, decorated mainly with pictures of African children and lovely Danish scenery. He would be the same age as Far, Steffen's father, since they had been school buddies. Steffen found a place in a worn leather chair, but couldn't get comfortable.

  "I appreciate your seeing me, Herr Madsen. My father—"

  "You know Mikkel and I were best friends all through our school years, don't you? How in the world is he?"

  "He's doing well, as far as I know. Haven't seen him in several years."

  "I see."

  "Perhaps you remember he was chief engineer on one of the Mærsk ships, at sea when the war started. So now that most Danish merchant ships are reflagged, he's based out of New York. That's all I know."

  "Ah, this war is crazy, isn't it? I'm glad they got our ships out, but now—what can I do for you?"

  This time Herr Madsen looked at him and waited. Steffen took a deep breath. This is what he came for, after all.

  "I'd like to be included in a Red Cross inspection team to wherever the Jews have been taken."

  "Pardon me?" Herr Madsen lifted his eyebrows in surprise, then wasted no time getting up to close the door before returning to his chair. He lowered his voice. "What makes you think there's going to be an inspection team?"

  "I'm assuming, of course, but it's very important. A matter of life or death. You might say it's a calling."

  Herr Madsen tapped a pencil on his desk. "But you're a pastor, correct?

  "If necessary I'll take a leave of absence. Whatever is necessary."

  For a moment a flash of doubt crossed Steffen's mind.Surely his father's old friend would not betray him to the Nazis. Would he?

  But Herr Madsen's voice softened even more.

  "Well, your request shouldn't surprise me, I suppose. After all, it's no secret where our clergy stands on the issue of deporting Jewish citizens. I might have assumed you shared those sentiments."

  "Yes, but to tell the truth, I hadn't actually given the matter much thought, until . . ." Steffen chose his words deliberately. "Until several, er, rather personal experiences brought it into focus."

  Now Herr Madsen studied Steffen as he leaned in closer.

  "A calling, hmm. Sounds like Moses and the burning tree."

  "Yes, well," Steffen rubbed his forehead and looked away, and he didn't have the heart to correct the man. Bushes, trees, close enough. "I wouldn't compare myself to Moses, but I do feel compelled. Perhaps that's a better way to describe it. I feel compelled to help in any way I can."

  "Hmm. And you think you could do some good?"

  "I don't know. I wouldn't expect any pay. I would do this purely a
s a volunteer. And I hope you don't feel it presumptuous of me to say so, but I simply must do this. I must go to . . . wherever it is."

  "Theresienstadt." Herr Madsen stood and pointed to a map of Europe on the far wall. He walked over and planted his finger on northern Czechoslovakia, not far south of the German border. "They've been taken to a fortress city called Theresienstadt. Or Terezin, as the Czechs call it."

  "Terezin." Steffen came to see the little dot on the map for himself.

  "I hear it's a sort of model community. One of my German contacts calls it a 'paradise ghetto.' Apparently they have recreation facilities, parks, good jobs, a music hall, a café— one could almost wish to be Jewish, eh?"

  When he laughed it sounded weak, for he could not believe it anymore than did Steffen. Even so he continued, as if thinking it over.

  "I must admit, I don't have many people asking me for jobs who can get away with saying that God wants them hired.And I suppose . . ."

  Steffen bit his lip until Herr Madsen let a small smile escape as he went on.

  "And I suppose as a pastor you would have a degree of expertise in dealing with people, as well as a good deal of stature in the community. It's not a bad resumé."

  "So you'll include me in the inspection team?"

  Herr Madsen held up his hand.

  "I can make no promises—not even as a favor to an old friend. We haven't even received permission to visit Theresienstadt, yet—though we're in daily contact with German authorities about it. Between you and me, though, I believe it's going to happen."

  Again he paused, and once again smiled.

  "Actually, assuming that plans do come together, I would in fact need an assistant. Normally I would prefer to bring Marie along on such a trip." He winked at Steffen, who didn't care for the implication. "But I have a feeling conditions might be a little more rustic than she's used to. More to the point, she's due to have a baby in a couple of months, and she's in no shape to travel."

  Speaking of Marie, a soft but persistent knock at the door interrupted them, and when Herr Madsen stood Steffen took his cue.

  "Herr Madsen," came the receptionist's voice, "Untersturmführer Schneider here to see you."

  "Send him in, please." Herr Madsen gave Steffen an apologetic shrug and walked him to the door. "You just leave your phone number with Marie at the front desk. We'll give you a call as soon as we know anything new, all right? I'll do what I can. And if you hear from your father— "

  "I'll be sure to greet him for you." Steffen shook Herr Madsen's hand. "And thank you. I can't ask for anything more."

  "Yes, well, I can't say I understand your motivation, Pastor, but I do admire your determination. Reminds me of your far. Speaking of which, did he ever tell you the story of how he saved my life once?"

  "I don't think so."

  "So we were on a bicycle trip together in Norway, and this is the summer before my final year at the university, before he ships out with the Merchant Marine, and—"

  His voice fell away as he opened the door to reveal a younger Gestapo officer standing not a meter away, arms crossed. Herr Madsen didn't even hesitate.

  "Aha," he said, smiling broadly and putting out his hand."Untersturmführer Schneider. So good to see you. Hope I didn't keep you waiting."

  In a stage whisper he told Steffen he would finish the story some other time, and Steffen was only too glad to slip away with a quiet "tak." While Steffen jotted down his name and telephone number, Herr Madsen chatted with the German officer like they were old friends, laughing at an inside joke until the door was closed once again.

  What did I just get myself into? Steffen asked himself.

  "You're doing what?" Pastor Viggo nearly chewed off the end of his cigar as he paced alongside a line of garbage cans behind the church while Steffen explained about his possible leave of absence. "This is most unusual. Highly unusual."

  "I know it is." Steffen followed his mentor through the smoke screen, holding his breath as he did. "But I feel compelled."

  "You feel compelled?" Pastor Viggo interrupted as he wheeled around to face Steffen. When the older man looked like this, it reminded Steffen of Winston Churchill, the British bulldog. "You would make this big of a decision based on feelings?"

  "No, that's not what I meant to say. It's just a figure of speech. I am compelled, and it really has nothing to do with feelings. I simply must do this."

  Pastor Viggo didn't take his eyes off Steffen, just ripped the cigar stub out of his mouth and threw it to the alley pavement.A moment later he realized what he'd done, however, and retrieved what was left of the smoldering stogie.

  "In any case, your church needs you above all else." Viggo dusted off his treasure. "I can't believe you would set all that aside."

  "It would only be temporary. Perhaps you wouldn't mind filling the pulpit for a couple of weeks in my absence, if it came to that. And if the bishop approves, that is."

  Viggo only shook his head.

  "That's not the point. Of course he would approve. But for a pastor to get involved with prison camp inspections—I just don't think it's proper."

  "You're the one who taught me about hupakouo, remember? I obey."

  "All very good to throw a little Greek into the equation. But I would ask whom you're obeying? God or your own desires?"

  This was getting a bit more personal than Steffen had anticipated. But he had an answer for that, no matter how impertinent it might sound.

  "You think I would actually want to go to a dirty German prison camp instead of staying here in my safe church? That I would want to take a leave of absence when it might endanger my career or my future? How can you call that my own desires?"

  "It's the Jewish girl, then, isn't it?"

  Steffen flinched as the older man let the words sink in for an awkward moment. Finally Steffen had to say something in his own defense.

  "I don't know if it is or not." That was as honest as it got, even with himself. "All I know is that everything is all jumbled up right now. My ministry, my faith, my anger at what's going on around me, my sense of justice—and I suppose yes, my attraction to Hanne."

  Viggo nodded at this, even allowing a slight smile.

  "There's the first honest words I've heard from you. Good.So now I know how to pray—that you'll start to sort things out." He blew a large puff of cigar smoke into the air above their heads. "Instead of seeing everything through a dark gray cloud."

  "Then you do approve, after all."

  "No, you don't understand, Steffen. There's a big difference between speaking your mind from the pulpit and stepping out beyond the walls of this place."

  He motioned to the building they both knew and loved.Steffen knew every bit of it, from the altar and its lovely ship model hanging from the soaring ceiling, to the catacombs and hallways below. This they shared.

  "You can preach all you want from our pulpit up there," said Pastor Viggo, "and you know the kinds of things the Germans won't like. But what's the worst thing that can happen? They complain; you apologize. Nothing more."

  Steffen thought it was probably a good thing he hadn't told Pastor Viggo about his visit to Vestre Prison, or how Wolfschmidt had threatened Hanne. Perhaps later.

  "But once you leave this place behind and step out there, Steffen, you're stepping into their world. Are you sure that's what you want to do?"

  "You talk as if I'm leaving the ministry. I remain a pastor.That doesn't change. It's just a leave of absence."

  "So you say. When would it start?"

  "I don't know, yet. Madsen at the Red Cross office is already working on the details for a visit to the camp. It may happen tomorrow, or it may not happen for months. But when it happens, I intend to go along."

  "For how long? Days? Weeks? Months?"

  "I, I don't know." Steffen looked away. Too many questions.He couldn't stand Viggo's piercing, blue-eyed interrogation any longer. "Perhaps not that long."

  "Fine. You do what you think is right. As I t
old you, I will pray."

  And with that the older man turned and shuffled to the rear entry, replacing what was left of his cigar in a vest pocket.He seemed slower than usual, as if his legs had stiffened or the conversation itself had aged him. As Steffen watched him go, though, he wished for—what? A blessing? Perhaps.

  "I'd hoped you would support me in this decision." He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. Viggo halted and steadied himself with an arm against the doorjamb, and glanced over his shoulder.

  "My dear Steffen, of course I support you. The question is, are you making a huge mistake which you will later regret? I think perhaps yes."

  And with that he closed the back door behind him, leaving Steffen to stand alone in the remnants of Viggo's advice— and his cigar smoke. Steffen wasn't entirely sure which one now made his eyes water, but a cold breeze had picked up and now blew a swirling couple of papers down the alley. Steffen stopped them with his shoe and looked down.

  One appeared to be yet another crudely worded warning from the German authorities, the likes of which had littered city streets for the past four years. Like all the others, this one warned of curfews and other security measures "for the safety of the residents of greater København." The usual trash.

  The other, however, was a fragment of an obviously homeprinted newspaper, Den Frie Danske. The Free Dane. He folded it carefully to read later. And after another moment of staring up at the Sankt Stefan's cross he shoved his fists into the pockets of his trousers and followed the old man inside.