by Robert Elmer
"I admire your courage," one older man said to him after a service in January; he forgot which one. "No one else is telling the truth these days."
Steffen had to stop himself from laughing.
"Courage?" he asked. "Is that what you think it is? Thank you, my friend, but I never thought of it that way. To tell you the truth, I'm actually afraid."
"Pardon me?" said the man.
"Afraid of what would happen to me if I didn't say what I say."
From his sermon of January 30: "And now we're faced with another choice. Who do we trust in? Our king? He stands for freedom. For our fatherland, fædrelandet. We all look for him when he rides his horse through the streets of the city, and our hearts are all warmed. But let's not forget he's only a man.Then what else can we trust in? In our famous social security? At our peril! We trade our souls, and in the end it slips through our fingers. No, there is only one worth trusting."
Did his congregation really believe his words sounded that dangerous? That part actually scared him the most, since he wasn't always sure what prompted their concern. But he cared little for his own safety in those early days of 1944 and thought much less about it than he had in what he considered his "previous life." Only for the safety of Hanne.
So on one particularly chilly Sunday night in early February, he lay awake once more thinking of what might be happening to her at Theresienstadt, or how soon they might receive word of the visit. It had been months since he'd first spoken to Poul Madsen, after all! And this was the way he spent most of his nights, if not all. His weekly collection sat in an envelope next to his bed, carefully counted and, like most weeks, fairly substantial. In the morning he would deliver it to the Red Cross office on Blegdamsgade Street, and he would ask again if there was any news. He was afraid he was becoming quite the pest.
Meanwhile his mind kept circling back to ugly imaginings of Jewish families huddled in dark corners, pursued by Nazis, while he himself traipsed on the fragile ice between waking and dreaming. And whether awake or dreaming he saw her face in the middle of the ragged crowd, blue and drawn and shivering, her hazel eyes pleading for help while he remained trapped in his ornate, carved pulpit, hurling rocks at the guards but still completely unable to help.
He sat up and snapped on his bedside lamp, heart thumping, to check the time.
Three a.m., and his pillow was soaked with the outpouring of his nightmare.
Certain he could not sleep now, he crawled out of bed and pulled on a sweater, then his faded brown house robe and slippers, and found his way to the little desk in the opposite corner of his bedroom. Still he shivered. And he stared at the piece of paper he'd left there earlier that day, his thoughts unfinished.
Actually the hardest part of his days was not the church work or the sermons, the visitations or offering communion or the baptisms. It was not collecting money or books or other supplies for the care packages, or volunteering at the Red Cross office every other day, putting together packages and preparing them for delivery. The hardest part was not hearing all the depressing war news, which was all around but which Steffen avoided as much as possible.
No. The hardest part came every evening, when Steffen sat at his little desk and pulled out pen and paper to write Hanne a few lines in the letter he would send every week.He knew the German censors would probably sift through every word before passing the note along to its intended destination, if they could be bothered even to do that much. So he chose his words carefully, and often—like tonight, like sleep—those words simply would not come. Chin in hand, he stared at what he had written earlier that evening, and the words danced before his eyes in the tiny pool of pale light from his desk lamp.
Though it's still only February, this will be the longest winter I've ever lived through, by far. But you certainly don't want to hear me complaining about the gloomy weather. Shall I complain of something else? As of today we are still waiting for word on whether our delegation will be granted permission to visit. Once more Herr Madsen told me "Perhaps next week." If I hear that again, I'm going to scream. But I read and re-read your letters, grateful for your encouragement.
There his partially written letter left off, and he wondered anew if the German censors would have a problem with him mentioning the delegation and their so-far unsuccessful efforts to visit Theresienstadt. Perhaps not. Did it matter?
"Let them take it out, if they want."
But since he still could not think of anything else to add, he simply added his "warmest greetings" and signed his name before folding it up and sealing the envelope for tomorrow's package.
And now he could sleep. Perhaps.
On the way to the Red Cross office the next morning, Steffen stopped by the back door of his brother's bookstore, careful to look both ways before picking up the box that would be left on the back step.
"Thanks again, my bror," he said to the back door, and he blew off a dusting of powdery snow as he hunched his shoulders against the cold and hurried the box of cast-off and damaged books back down the alley. Perhaps by now they might have word from the German authorities about their request to visit Theresienstadt. And if not, they would keep sending package after package, letter after letter, request after request. If nothing else, the Germans would know that they were not giving up on these people.
He wondered again if there really might not be some way to mail himself in one of the packages, and that would give the person on the other end quite a fright, would it not? He smiled weakly as he walked down Nørrebrogade, keeping his eyes on the sidewalk to keep from slipping on a patch of ice.He didn't bother this time to check which books his brother had donated, but he was sure they would be welcomed. A travel book, perhaps, or a lighthearted novel.
He wondered if she liked the poetry.
Hanne did her best to escape the cold by burrowing deeper underneath her blanket, curled up on her hard bunk in the women's unheated bunkhouse. If there had been more tears, she might have cried them. And if there had been other books, she might have read them. But the Jewish theology books in German didn't interest her. Hardly anything did.So once again she read through the book of poetry by Kaj Munk. Judging by the portions underlined in pencil, it had apparently been a favorite of Steffen's. She kept it down low, in case anyone else should notice, but it also served as a place to keep the letters she'd received from him, courtesy of the Red Cross.
The weather was growing even colder, he told her, and she nodded.
Same here, Steffen.
A sweetness shone through even his most cautious words—and she wasn't sure how much of the caution came from anticipating the German censors who would read the letter, or . . . just caution. Still, "I miss you" in any language helped keep her warm on those awful, dark nights, when she tried to block out the groans around her as she read his letters over and over, along with his poetry.
When he mentioned once in his December letter about preparing for the Christmas season, and the coming of the Messiah, she wondered more about what kind of faith would make a man risk his own life for hers, or if it was something else. She would reply in the morning, perhaps in between patients, but in the meantime she composed a note in her head.
Dear Steffen, she began in her mind. Or perhaps, Dearest Steffen. Better.
I read your latest letter four, no five times tonight, and it gave me hope that there is someone waiting for me, after all this is over and I am released. But there is one thing I was hoping you would explain, because I have thought about it every day since I was captured.
Your kiss.
Did it mean what I thought it to mean, or did it mean something else? Did you kiss me as you would a sister, or perhaps in a more romantic context?
"Romantic context?" She made a mental note not to use that phrase. Far too clinical. But still she had to ask.
Because if you have feelings for me, then I would like to inform you that I, too—
"Lights out!" roared a gendarme from the floor below as he slammed doors and
stomped about. That would be his five- second warning before all lights in the women's barracks were abruptly cut for the evening. A few of the other women scurried for their bunks. But Hanne didn't mind; she snuggled a little deeper into her threadbare blanket, holding her book, her letters, and her hopes close to her chest.
She would figure out the rest of the letter in the morning, if she even dared broach the subject. Perhaps she might use more discreet language. But she would sign it—
Love, Hanne.
And so Steffen marked off the days—slowly, daily, one at a time, but with a distinct red pencil that eventually formed a crisscross fence across the face of his calendar and the days of his life since he had last seen Hanne. December into January and February into March. Days and then weeks, weeks and then months. Winter and ice into early spring and thaw, and he told Hanne about everything he could think of in his letters, week after week.
I hope you don't tire of all the details, he wrote one day in early March. It's just that I've grown so accustomed to telling you everything. It wouldn't seem right if I didn't. Of course, it would be better if I could tell you in person. Much better.
In the first several letters he'd signed off with the usual "With Friendly Greetings," but that had changed to "Warm Greetings" and finally just "Love, Steffen."
Because . . . did she see?
As a joke, he even once tried signing his name "Rabbi Petersen," which she thought was funny. At the same time, he struggled with the emotions that escaped his fountain pen, emotions whose course he could not quite predict, like an explorer headed down an uncharted stream. In Danmark, however, there were no uncharted streams. And just like anywhere else, they flowed inevitably and predictably to the sea.
So he unfolded his struggle on paper, and told her of his own Jewish Messiah, as gently as he knew how, so as not to offend. She wrote back with more questions, with what appeared to be genuine interest.
How is it that the Messiah didn't bring peace, if he came as you said? she asked. Would a Jewish person still be Jewish, if she accepted your view of the Messiah? And Lutherans really don't believe in three gods, do they?
He had to chuckle when he read that last question. He would have a good answer for her. At the same time, the German censors did not seem to mind such a romantic, theological exchange, since they left each word intact for them both to read.
But no matter how much Steffen wrote to Hanne, and no matter how much she wrote back, the correspondence only fueled his growing desire to see her in person once again.And perhaps out of his frustration, or perhaps out of a growing realization of what he really believed, his sermons grew even more fiery as time went on and they still had not heard from the Germans about their request to visit Theresienstadt.
How long could such a thing take?
Steffen had long since run out of patience for the process and knew full well how his impatience threatened his precarious standing with Poul Madsen. The only response he could think of was to work that much harder in the back room at Red Cross headquarters, filling boxes and covering them with brown kraft paper, taping them over and filling out labels. On one of those spring workdays, his pair of longhandled scissors flew across the paper, nipping his finger and drawing blood. He noticed too late that he had decorated one of the labels with tiny spatters of red, but he popped his thumb in his mouth to stem the bleeding as much as he could—just as Herr Madsen filled the doorway to the supply room behind him. Steffen pulled his thumb out of his mouth as quickly as he could.
"It's June 18." Herr Madsen waved a paper at Steffen. "I thought you'd want to know."
Well, no, actually it was still May. Even Steffen could have told him that, though he frequently lost track of the exact date. But seldom the month. Herr Madsen waved the paper again and smiled.
"Don't you understand? We finally have approval to visit Theresienstadt. This is what you've been waiting for, no?"
"We?" Steffen dropped the package on the floor. "That includes me—is that what you're saying?"
"Of course it does. Right here." He pointed to his paper."Herr Poul Madsen and his assistant. You're the assistant, are you not?"
"Yes, of course. I mean, I suppose I am." Now Steffen couldn't help smiling, though he wasn't quite sure if that was the correct response. Would Herr Madsen mind him screaming or dancing a jig in the middle of the floor? Instead he fixed his tie and cleared his throat. "But that's just three weeks from now. I'll need to get ready."
As if he hadn't been preparing every day of this longest winter.
32
NORTHERN CZECHOSLOVAKIA
FRIDAY MORNING, 23 JUNI 1944
My life in the camp was one of desperation,
hard work, hunger, disease, [and] being eaten alive by vermin.
Instead of plush toys, small children played with live rats.
—CHARLOTTE GUTHMANN OPFERMANN,
THERESIENSTADT SURVIVOR
Normally the northern Czech countryside might have looked quite cheery in June, as the hillsides rolled out vast carpets of snow-white and golden wildflowers, and fields of lush green hay rediscovered new life in the first glittering rays of a morning sun. Little towns along the rail line appeared freshly scrubbed, and there even might be several birds he had not seen before. But as Steffen stared out the window of their southbound train, he saw none of that. He simply rested his head back against the seat and listened to the rhythm of wheels beneath their feet, imagining what lay ahead but afraid to anticipate the horror that must be waiting.
He did allow himself to imagine her face, however, and the memory of a smile he had kept with him over these long months, through winter and spring. Despite everything that had happened, would she have held on to that, at least? Perhaps. If God answered prayer, perhaps.
In his pocket he clutched the dozen treasured letters he'd received from Hanne while she was in Theresienstadt, and he might have read them all over yet again if he didn't already have them memorized. She worked in the clinic and found it a challenge. She missed her friends at Bispebjerg, of course, but there was nothing to be done about that. She wanted to know more of what he believed, wanted to know more about his Messiah. And she missed Steffen most of all. He smiled at that part. Perhaps she might have said more, but they both labored under the constant assumption that others would be reading each letter before it reached its intended recipient.
In the seat next to him Herr Madsen shuffled papers on the little briefcase desk he'd balanced on his lap since they'd departed København the evening before. The man seemed never to sleep, rarely left the first- class sleeper compartment they occupied, and never stopped working. If he wasn't reading thick, bound reports, he was apparently writing them— despite the constant rocking of the train. The motion seemed to do little to make the man's illegible handwriting any worse.
The only diversion Herr Madsen allowed himself was the hourly cigarette, lit precisely at the top of the hour and smoked for precisely three minutes, then extinguished. As a result Steffen could set his own watch by the regularity of Herr Madsen's personal habits, and frequently he did.
Finally, upon the lighting of the morning's second cigarette, Herr Madsen turned for a moment to his assistant and peered at him over his glasses.
"We'll be there shortly, you know."
Steffen adjusted his tie and nodded as he consulted his watch, though he knew the time without looking.
"Another hour?"
Herr Madsen nodded. "Let's go over again exactly what I'd like you to do. I'm unsure how much of our tour will be on foot. I assume they'll allow us to tour the camp in some kind of vehicle, given the size of the place."
"Approximately five city blocks by nine city blocks. Streets are laid out in a grid pattern. Completely walled on all sides. I have a map for you, when you're ready."
Herr Madsen smiled at Steffen's efficient answer.
"You've done your homework. In any case, please be sure to have several of your notebooks on hand, as I'll be calling
on you to take notes as we go."
Steffen patted his small case, full of writing supplies and extra pencils. Given Herr Madsen's penchant for efficiency, it would not do to run out. Next to these he'd packed a small camera case with the Kodak Retina camera and several rolls of 35 millimeter film. A fine little camera, actually. He would not come up short.
"Also," added Herr Madsen, "you will take photographs of whatever I indicate—but only what I indicate. Nothing more and nothing less. They will probably also have official military photographers on hand, but it will be convenient to have our own resources, as well."
"I understand."
Yes, but the butterflies in his stomach obviously did not arise from the complexity of his task. Anyone could take notes and snap a few directed pictures. But the farther south they traveled, the more his stomach knotted into a tight ball.So when a white-jacketed porter stopped by the compartment a few minutes later offering coffee and small German cookies, Steffen could only hold up a hand and decline. Herr Madsen looked at him quizzically.
"Better take advantage of the offer, Steffen." He took a cup as the porter poured steaming black coffee, and several small round cookies besides. "You won't get this kind of treatment back home."
Very true. Steffen was sorely tempted to take a few cookies and save them in his pocket. But that was just the start of their VIP treatment; when they finally pulled into the Bogosovice station later that morning, one would have thought der Führer himself had paid the little Czech town a visit. Colorful red and black banners decorated the station, along with large signs shouting their "Velkommen Dänuschen Roten Kreutze!"
