by Robert Elmer
His decision had been made.
30
OFFICE OF THE DANISH RED CROSS, KØBENHAVN
THURSDAY MORNING, 28 OKTOBER 1943
I have found the paradox, that if you love until it hurts,
there can be no more hurt, only more love.
—MOTHER TERESA
Steffen doodled on his desk calendar with a pencil stub as he waited for Herr Madsen to answer the phone, or perhaps Marie at the front desk. Four, five, six rings: how many days had it been since the man had said they'd be back in touch with him "shortly"? It seemed some people had different definitions of the word.
"Come on," he mumbled, "answer the phone."
Finally Marie answered, Steffen was connected to Herr Madsen, and they exchanged the usual polite greetings. But Steffen didn't bother to bring up the dreary fall weather, or how dark it was getting so early in the evenings, or any of the small talk one would normally endure. He really only wanted to know one thing.
"So what do we hear about Theresienstadt, Herr Madsen?"
Herr Madsen sighed audibly. "As I told you last week, still nothing yet. These things take time."
"Yes, but our people have been gone for several weeks now.Some of them might be needing medical attention. We need to make sure they're getting mail. For all we know, they could be starving to death."
"No one is starving to death, Pastor. Of that I assure you."
"How can you assure me? All we know is what the Germans deign to tell us."
"More than that. We've just received a package full of postcards indicating that they've been received well at Theresienstadt, and that all four hundred and sixty-six have made it safely. They say they will accept mail to and from Danmark."
"Wait a minute." Steffen nearly pulled the telephone out of the wall in his pastor's study. "Postcards? From whom? And to whom?"
"I have no idea of the specifics, Pastor. All I know is that we've received the correspondence, and that it's being processed as quickly as possible. Meanwhile, although we have not yet received medical reports, we're reasonably certain everyone is all right, so far."
"Perhaps they are." Steffen did his best to keep his voice level. "But isn't that what we need to find out for ourselves?"
Don't push, Steffen reminded himself, biting his pencil.Don't put him on the defensive.
"Look, Pastor, they have already agreed to consider our request for an on-site inspection, and apparently it's going through the usual channels in Berlin. That could take awhile."
"How long?"
"Perhaps a few days, perhaps a few weeks. You'll be the first to know, I promise."
Steffen didn't answer right away.
"Are you still there?" asked Herr Madsen.
"Still here. Just wondering what else I can do."
"We're doing all we can, as you know. But in the meantime, if you want to make yourself useful, perhaps you can help us put together a few packages."
"Packages? Of?"
"Medical supplies, foodstuffs, chewing gum, reading material—anything that would be of use to the people there. We have some of the supplies on hand, but if you could assemble donations from your parish, that would be helpful as well."
"I'll gather a few things and drop them by your office this afternoon," he promised. "Thank you."
Twenty minutes later Steffen knocked at the locked door of the Ibsen Boghandel, pressing his face to the glass. Inside the lights were off, though it was only three in the afternoon.
Odd.
He knocked again, louder this time, until he caught a movement in the back.
"Henning!" He tried to shout through the glass. "Open up.It's me."
He had to pound just a little more to prove to his brother that he wasn't going away. And Henning did not look pleased to open up the door, even a crack.
"What are you doing here?" Henning asked as Steffen slipped by him. His voice sounded hoarse and distant.
"That's not the question. The question is, why in the world are you closed on a Thursday afternoon?"
His voice trailed off as his eyes adjusted to the dim light and he finally made out his brother's bruises. A dark ring framed Henning's sunken left eye, while his right eye squinted through a puffy, swollen eyelid. An angry gash across his cheek looked even more painful. Henning held up a hand after he closed and locked the door behind them.
"Don't say it, all right?" When he took a deep breath, it rattled in his chest. "I have a mirror. I know how bad I look."
"What happened to you?"
Henning paused, as if he was debating whether to answer.
"Let's just say we ran into a little trouble last night."
"That looks like more than just a little trouble. Your face looks like it's been through a sausage grinder."
"Thank you. What a lovely way to describe it. Morsomt."
"Of all the ways to describe your face right now, the word lovely does not come to mind."
"Anything else?" Henning crossed his arms now and waited.
"Actually, I did come to ask you something." Steffen decided to change the subject for now. "I'm putting together some packages for the Red Cross, and we'd like to include a few books for the people in Theresienstadt. We assume they don't have anything in Danish to read. Do you have any you'd like to donate? Damaged goods, perhaps? Anything would help."
"For the Red Cross, eh? Why didn't you say so? You going to deliver them personally?"
Henning rummaged around behind the counter for a minute, pulling out several books with covers that had been torn partly off, then several more. A few novels, even a thick stack of popular news and gossip magazines, Billed Bladet (The Illustrated Magazine) and Alt for Damerne (Everything for Women). He piled everything into a cardboard box and shoved it across the counter, then looked up at his older brother.
"There you go. But I wasn't serious. Please don't tell me you're actually thinking you can go to the camp by yourself.Are you?"
"Thanks." Steffen pulled the box across the counter.
But Henning reached over and held on to a corner of the box, not releasing his brother just yet.
"You didn't answer me."
Steffen sighed before explaining about the leave of absence and his new connection with the Red Cross, while Henning's expression clouded over, darker and darker.
"Well?" asked Steffen. "Don't just stare at me like that.What do you think?"
"I think you have no business getting involved this way.The Red Cross? Since when did pastors join the Red Cross? I thought you had sermons to preach."
"Again you confuse me. Once I was the big brother who was too cautious. The one you said was too scared to get involved and do the right thing. Remember?"
"This is different. You probably don't want to hear this, but there's a new Gestapo sturmbannführer in town, and word is that he's even tougher than Wolfschmidt."
Steffen gulped. Worse than Wolfschmidt? He pushed back the thought.
"It doesn't matter. For once in my life, I think I am doing the right thing."
Now Henning paced behind the counter, and it was a good thing the sign on the doorway read "lukket." Closed.
"In fact," Steffen continued, "ever since the rescues, I know I've been doing the right thing. I think I—"
"Would you stop it?" Henning nearly shouted. "Just because you helped a few Jews escape to Sweden, doesn't mean you're a card-carrying member of the Underground."
"I didn't help them all escape, now, did I?"
"Oh, so now you're going to act all guilty. That's what it is. One escape goes wrong, and now you think you have to do penance to make up for it. That's a stupid idea, if you ask me."
Steffen studied his brother, wondering.
"I can't figure you out," he finally told Henning. "No matter what I do, it's not right. In your eyes I can't win."
"Well, I'm sorry if you feel that way. So let me just say I'm proud of my big brother for finally stepping out and putting his high ideals into practice. Bully for you
. But that's as far as it goes, okay?"
"You just want me to run back to the church building and hide behind my pulpit. That's what you're saying, isn't it?"
"Worked pretty well for you before."
"Oh, come on." Steffen groaned. "First you tell me to get involved, and now when I do, you tell me not to. Make up your mind, will you? What am I supposed to do?"
Henning just stared at his brother, then finally shook his head and pointed to his eye.
"All right. You see this? We were working on a section of railroad tracks last night. You know, modifying them."
"You mean tearing them apart. Sabotage."
"But my point is, it was supposed to be a low-risk operation.There weren't supposed to be any guards along that section."
Steffen felt his eyes grow wide. He couldn't help asking.
"Just like at the beach? What happened?"
"You don't want to know." Henning shook his head. "See, that's what I'm trying to tell you, but you're not listening. It's getting rougher by the day. You have no idea."
"I do have an idea. You forget where I spent some time."
"Spent some time, sure! You were in and out in a matter of hours. Most people I know only come out of Vestre Prison to be buried in a shallow grave."
Steffen said nothing in reply. After the shame of his release, what could he say? Instead, Henning's voice softened a notch.
"Listen, brother, I'm not going to ask what they made you promise or what they made you say. It doesn't matter. I can guess. But Steffen, don't you see? If they catch you again, you're not going to be released with a slap on the wrist, no matter who you are."
Steffen actually nodded. Henning went on.
"Just this past weekend a friend of mine went to do a job, and Germans were waiting for him."
"What does that mean?"
"It means my friend is probably dead."
"I'm sorry."
"Not as much as I am. And it also means there's a stikker inside our organization somewhere, and he's going to betray everybody if we don't find him soon."
"A Judas."
"You would call him that. But no matter what, please don't get any high-minded ideas. I was wrong. This isn't for you, Steffen. It's just too dangerous."
"Looks as if it might be a little dangerous for you, too."
For a moment they stared at each other, neither backing down. But this time Henning finally cracked a grin and allowed his brother to take a closer look.
"You look ridiculous," Steffen told him. "Although, I remember the time when you were twelve, and that fellow down the street did about the same thing to your face. You remember his name?"
"Ulrik Andersen. He wanted me to share my piece of licorice, and I wasn't giving in. But this isn't about my black eye
or Ulrik Andersen. This is about you."
"Oh? I didn't think so."
"Well, it is. And I'm telling you now that you need to forget about this leave of absence thing. Go back to the church and do what you do best. Let the Red Cross do their job and stay out of their way."
"Too late for that, Henning. I can't stay out of the way. I'm going to the camp as soon as they'll let me."
Henning paced some more, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to mop his forehead. It wasn't that warm.
"All right, fine. You don't listen to me anyway. Just stay away from the bookstore for a while. We're being watched, more and more. I don't want you swept up with the rest of us if the new Gestapo fellow decides they've had enough."
"You sure it wouldn't be safer if you left for Sweden, too?"
"That's it! Out!"
"No, wait. I'm serious."
But now Henning just pushed him toward the back door, past tall shelves of dusty books that needed sorting and straightening.
"So am I," replied Henning. "And I am not going to Sweden, although if you don't settle down, it might be a good idea for you. Think you can row yourself there? Now get out of here and don't come back unless it's an actual emergency.Don't ever call me on the phone, either."
"But what about those books?" Steffen dug in his heels, then waited by the back door until Henning returned with the box.
"Here you go." Henning plopped the books and magazines into Steffen's arms. "But let the Red Cross deliver this stuff, all right? You keep your head down and stay out of trouble, and I'll give you a call sometime."
"Thanks." Steffen nearly stumbled out the back door, clutching his books. "I think."
31
SANKT STEFAN'S KIRKE, KØBENHAVN
SUNDAY MORNING, 12 DECEMBER 1943
When I came to power, I did not want the concentration camps to
become old-age pensioners' homes but instruments of terror.
—ADOLF HITLER
As the cool, crisp days of autumn gave way to the cold dreariness of Danmark's long, dark winter, Steffen's life consisted of waiting for his chance to visit the camp. On those days when overcast eased its grip on København—which was indeed rare—a feeble splinter of pale sunshine might peek over the southern horizon around nine or nine-thirty, causing the sea of red tile roofs to glitter, and the city's tired residents to peer out of their windows, entertaining their own glimmer of hope that perhaps winter would loosen its grip. But then the slim bronze sun would only slip back out of sight, just after four in the afternoon, as if it had somewhere else to go and was in a hurry to leave. The only antidote was to light yet another candle and try to create an evening of hygge, that famous Danish coziness where people could enjoy each other's company inside a warmly decorated home.
Being a bachelor, however, Steffen knew little of hygge, and his tiny apartment proved it. Perhaps his version didn't warm the room quite as well. For him, the shortest days reflected his dark mood and the distant hope rising and setting in his soul.
Even so, it helped that he could count the weeks on his church calendar, and the weeks of Advent seemed to help the most. From here he could look forward to the day when this dark tide of waiting would indeed turn once more, bringing with it the lengthening days.
And as he prepared his sermons, his carefully veiled protests against the Nazi threat, he could look forward to Hanne's brief but welcome letters.
From his sermon, December 19: "This snow will melt, and the fog will lift." Steffen could not remember ever using the word Nazi in the actual sermon. He would not dare, remembering Wolfschmidt's blunt threats and the dark shadow that man once cast over Hanne's fate. Could Wolfschmidt's successor do worse?
But as Steffen nearly shouted the words, his people seemed to lean forward that much more, as if they understood his meaning almost better than he himself. "It's winter, but spring is on its way. The green will return to the land we love. Because this is the land of Bishop Absalon, and we all remember from our school lessons how he defeated the Wendish pirates, destroyed their idols, and brought faith to their lands. But my question is this: What would our friend Absalon have done today?"
Steffen had a fairly good idea how the legendary bishop and founder of København might have reacted to the Nazi occupiers had he been alive today instead of the twelfth century. But in his case, Steffen clung to his routine like a drowning man to a lifeline, in between sermons punctuated by increasing heat and fervent heart.
On Sunday mornings he would collect donations for the captive Danish Jews, usually small five or ten kroner notes slipped to him with a wink as his parish left the building after the Sunday service. He would nod and quietly thank each donor, then gladly discuss the latest weather report or the scripture of the day. Anything other than the heavy-handed, thinly veiled tirade he had just shoveled at his congregation from behind the safety of his pulpit.
These days the messages seemed to spring out of nowhere, as if he hadn't given them a thought and they simply leaked out from tortured corners of his mind, too filled with worries to hold anymore.
It did encourage him that people seemed to care enough to keep up their donations to the ongoing cause. And as P
astor Viggo noted wryly on his way out on Second Christmas Day, December 26, "The pews are filling up, my friend. Only watch what you say. There are Germans in the audience. Watch what you say."
Steffen did watch what he said, and he never forgot his conversation with Sturmbannführer Wolfschmidt. But on January 9 of the new year he asked, "Generations from now, what will our children remember from this day?" Steffen gazed out over the congregation, pews overflowing with expectant faces. Whose German toes would he step on this morning? Steffen was as curious as the next person to see. "Will they look at the cross in our flag and realize what inspired us and kept us alive through this long winter? What will we tell them? What kind of land will we leave to those who will follow?"
Perhaps there was more of God in his "new" sermons, and certainly more raw emotion; Pastor Viggo thought so, and told Steffen as much. But Steffen explained to him that he simply wrote and spoke what he now saw in the weekly Gospel reading, and prayed that God might inspire the words— if not the exact word choice, then perhaps the general idea.
He could point to one clear difference, however. By this time he'd had more than enough of his old notes from years past, which he no longer bothered to consult and which sat tucked away in several file drawers. Now every week took on a life of its own. And although he still customarily wrote out every word in advance, after the service he honestly wasn't sure what he had really said, or how he'd said it, or even how closely he'd followed his own script. It was just done, come what may. So he could only smile and nod when congregant after congregant came up to him afterward, looked him in the eye, squeezed his hand, and told him to please keep saying what he was saying. And that they were praying for his safety.
