Danzig Passage

  “The reason you are here is that you have disobeyed the God-given authority of the land. That authority is the Führer.”

  “The reason I am here is because I have obeyed the law of God that is written in that same chapter in Romans. ‘Love your neighbor as yourself. Love does no harm to its neighbor. Therefore love is the fulfillment of the law.” He paused. There was enough within those verses for several weeks of sermons, but his friends were standing in the rain, after all. “I saw firsthand the Nazi government’s treatment of neighbors on Kristal Nacht.”

  “You call these Jews your neighbors?” He flipped open his Bible. “The Lord himself has said in Mathew 21, verse 45 to the Jews, ‘Therefore I tell you that the kingdom of God will be taken away from you and given to a people who will produce its fruit!’” Triumphant, he laid the book open on the table.

  Karl simply quoted the rest of the passage. “Verses 45 and 46: ‘When the chief priests and the Pharisees heard Jesus’ parables, they knew he was talking about them. They looked for a way to arrest him, but they were afraid of the crowd because the people believed he was a prophet.” Karl inclined his head slightly, as if amused. “Chief priests and religious leaders throughout the generations have often sought ways to silence the true Jesus. They have arrested or condemned those who preach His word. And then they are afraid that the simple people in the crowds who hear and believe will turn against their authority. The first day they accused Jesus, the simple people in the crowds were Jews.” Karl shook his head slowly at the expression of anger on Dorfman’s face. “He was speaking to men like you, Gustav Dorfman. Matthew twenty-three. ‘Everything they do is done for men to see . . . .They love the place of honor at banquets and the most important seats in the synagogues; they love to be greeted in the marketplace and to have men call them Rabbi . . . .Woe unto you, teachers of the law and Pharisees, you hypocrites! You shut the kingdom of heaven in men’s faces. You yourselves do not enter, nor will you let those enter who are trying to!’”

  Dorfman jumped to his feet in outrage. Like the Pharisees, he was indignant that Karl Ibsen was talking about him. “You! How dare you!”

  “Not me! Hear the words of our only teacher . . . a rabbi! A Jew! The Messiah! Hear His words to you, Gustav, and tremble. ‘Woe to you, teachers of the law and Pharisees, you hypocrites! You travel over land and sea to win a single convert, and when he becomes one, you make him twice as much a son of hell as you are.’ Listen to the voice of the Lord, Gustav! ‘One of them, an expert in the law, tested him with a question—‘”

  “That is enough.”

  “’Teacher, which is the greatest commandment in the law?’ Jesus replied, ‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart and all your soul and all your mind.’ First and greatest . . . ‘And the second is like it: Love your neighbor as yourself. All the law and the prophets hang on these two commandments.’”

  “You are insane,” Dorfman said in a low, menacing voice. “Insane to talk to me like this! Do you know the power I have here? They will do what I tell them. If I say you are a hopeless case, then—”

  “It is you who have lost your hope, Gustav. And you, and men of the church like you, have hidden the true Messiah from the people of the Covenant. From the Jewish people. You think God is not watching? Jesus is still there, still true and loving beneath all the molten gold you dip Him in! Hang Him in the churches, persecute the race from which He came, claim that you are the new Israel! But I tell you, He is not in your church, Gustav. No, He is here in this camp. He walks—alive—among the suffering! He has not forsaken His covenant or His people Israel! I heard His voice, and it calls me to obey Him . . . not you! Not your dark and twisted Führer!”

  Karl stood to face Dorfman. Filthy and stinking in his uniform, his eyes revealed more life than those of this withered man inside his perfectly tailored suit.

  Dorfman tried to speak. He looked at the Bible fearfully. Had he ever heard the warning of judgment before now?

  Karl spoke. “Jesus wept because of men like you. He also died for all of us, Jew and Gentile alike. But I pity you more than most men, Gustav, because you have poked your bony finger in the eye of God, when you should have stopped to touch His hem and mingle your tears with His.”

  “Are you finished?” Dorfman backed up a step, regaining some of his aloofness. “No. I do not need to ask you if you are finished. I tell you. This is the last . . . last chance. I am ordered to say . . . if you repent your stubbornness . . . .”

  Karl smiled sadly. Dorfman still saw gray.

  “You will not convert me to your cause,” Karl said. “I will pray for you, however. You are in deep water. I would not trade places with you for all the riches of the Reich.”

  ***

  “No!” Alfie cried, his eyes growing wide with terror. Something very bad was happening to Joseph. The soft white belly of the cat tightened, and he growled miserably. And then Joseph jerked his head around to his tail and made a moaning sound.

  “Joseph!” Alfie called the name of his friend. Tears splashed on the stone floor beside the untouched sardines. “Don’t leave me alone, Joseph,” he begged.

  Again the cat moaned and his stomach tightened, and it seemed as if Joseph’s insides were coming out. Alfie shrank back in the corner and watched what must surely be the last breath of his little friend. He sobbed and called for Mama and then for Werner. He wished he had not run away from the hospital; it might have been better to go with Werner than to be so sad and alone!

  Then something amazing happened to Joseph. He licked and licked at the little something that had come from inside him. He did not seem to hurt anymore for a while. And that little something between Joseph’s paws suddenly moved and made a tiny squeak and said meow!

  This terrible thing was not so terrible. It was a kitten! It was wet and skinny and very unhappy-looking, but it was alive. Joseph cleaned the little yellow thing and then looked proudly at Alfie. What did you think?

  Alfie wiped away his tears and dropped down on all fours to look closely at the kitten. Joseph let him look, but growled when Alfie tried to poke it with his finger.

  “Joseph,” Alfie said happily, “you are a mother!”

  The yellow kitten nuzzled close to Joseph and, finding a faucet in the soft fur, began to nurse. Alfie had seen this before with his dog. He had seen puppies eat supper this way, so he was not surprised. He had not touched the puppies, either. Mama had not let him watch them be born, and he had always supposed that his dog had burped them up. This was something new. Alfie did not go to sleep all night as Joseph had five more kittens. A fat gray one, a little tiger-striped one, and one just the same colors as Joseph. The last one, black with white paws, did not move when Joseph cleaned him. He just lay there between Joseph’s paws, very still and small. Joseph nudged the kitten away and turned his attention to the other ones who squirmed and squeaked and wiggled against Joseph’s belly.

  Alfie looked at the black and white kitten. It was no bigger than Alfie’s finger. He asked Joseph’s permission to pick it up, since Joseph did not seem to want it.

  He placed it in his hand and sat back against the wall. It was wet and cool against his skin. Its little mouth opened in a gasp for breath—still living, but not for long. This kitten reminded Alfie of the boys in the ward of the hospital. Weak and thin, it could not compete with the row of strong and healthy kittens squirming against Joseph’s belly.

  “Ah, little cat.” Alfie held it up to the warmth of his breath. “I would call you Werner if you would live.”

  The tiny body twitched and Alfie ran his finger gently over the paper-thin ribs. Back and forth he stroked the kitten. He held it close to him and spoke gently to it while his finger licked it in place of Joseph’s tongue.

  “Live, little Werner,” Alfie whispered over and over throughout the long night.

  The ribs rose and fell as the kitten lived on by the will of Alfie. Its damp fur dried into a fragment of fluff. The pink nose twitched, and the white paws beg
an to stir weakly.

  Alfie put the tip of his little finger into the mouth of Werner. The snap of suction rewarded him. Only then did he lower the kitten for Joseph to see again. The mother cat purred her gratitude and nuzzled the kitten. Joseph even allowed Alfie to find Werner a good faucet and plug him in for his first warm meal.

  ***

  Peter had not left Herr Ruger’s apartment since he discovered their home was destroyed. Nor had he allowed his mother to go out. Marlene, who had left her dolls at home, complained incessantly about the fact that she could not so much as look out at the snow, let alone go play in it. Self-centered Marlene had turned ten while they stayed at Herr Ruger’s, but still could not believe that anything had happened out there since she had not been affected by it. No one had hurt her, and so, no one could have been hurt. This punishment of remaining in Herr Ruger’s apartment was the only unhappiness she could perceive. Her whining left Peter on the verge of throwing her out the window.

  Baby Willie was Peter’s only salvation. A constant source of entertainment, the seven-month-old babbled and cooed and crawled and drooled in happy laughter when Peter held him high over his head or played peek-a-boo, or crawled after him in a game of infant tag.

  Thankfully, Peter’s mother had brought an entire basket of diapers along. Laundry lines crisscrossed the front room of Herr Ruger’s elegant apartment. Clean diapers were placed on the radiators to dry. Socks and underwear draped on a line running from the dining room to the Queen Anne armoire like pennants on a ship.

  Herr Ruger’s flat had become a kind of ark for the little family. Kitchen cupboards were well stocked. Warmth hissed and rattled through the steam radiators. No one had knocked on the door or telephoned. News blared over the radio with typical Nazi party fanfare. Herr Ruger had not returned to claim his home from the little band of fugitives, and so they stayed on, eating the food cautiously, warming their hands gratefully, sleeping soundly in beds that were not their own.

  Marlene, oblivious to all danger, finally shattered the tranquility of their imprisonment.

  Her serious dark eyes locked on a piece of paper, she emerged from Herr Ruger’s bedroom. “Mother, I have written a poem about the snow. It is very good, I think. And I have decided that I will be a poet. I will write a verse every day until next year and then I will have an entire book.” She handed the paper to her mother with a flourish.

  “Well, read it to me,” Karin Wallich said, handing the paper back to Marlene.

  Marlene shot a sullen look at Peter, who was prepared for the worst. “No,” Marlene declared. “Peter will laugh at me.” She reverently placed the paper back in her mother’s hands.

  Karin smiled benignly with the kind of patient look that mothers have when they must interpret a child’s genius out of chicken scratchings. Her lips moved as she read silently. “Why, Marlene, this is really—” Then Karin Wallich’s smile faded. The praise died on her lips. Color drained from her cheeks at what she held in her hand. She managed a whisper. “Marlene, where . . . where did you . . . get this stationery?”

  “From Herr Ruger’s desk drawer,” the child declared blithely. “But do you really like my poem?”

  “Show me!” Karin was on her feet now.

  Peter stood in automatic response to the alarm in his mother’s voice. “What is it?” He took the paper from her hand.

  His eyes focused past the scrawled letters and ink blotches to the embossed letterhead of the sheet. The eagle of the Reich clutched a broken cross in its talons. Beneath that was the insignia of the Gestapo, the Vienna address of Gestapo headquarters!

  Peter roughly grabbed his sister’s arm. “Where did this come from?” he demanded, giving her a shake.

  She began to cry. “It was in the desk. All I wanted was some paper. There was lots of it. Lots and lots. He would not mind a few pieces of blank paper. He would not even miss them.”

  “Show me where you found it!” He propelled her into the gloomy bedroom. A large credenza with a fold-out writing desk stood open. A stack of clean white letterhead stationery lay in an open drawer. Peter and Karin hovered over it, staring at the ominous emblem in disbelief. Neither of them dared to touch the paper, as though the insignia itself might harm them. Marlene whimpered her innocence in the background. They seemed not to hear her.

  “Gestapo,” Peter whispered.

  “Where could he have come by it?” Karin could hardly speak.

  “Stolen? Perhaps he has stolen it.”

  “If the apartment is ever searched . . . if he has stolen Gestapo letterhead stationery! Why . . . they will arrest him! They will execute him!”

  “But why would he have it?”

  “They will say he is a forger.”

  “Maybe he is.” Peter frowned. He pulled open another drawer. The credenza had not been opened before. They had left the tiny drawers and compartments alone, just like the chest of drawers. Personal things, the belongings of Otto Ruger, had not been looked at. Herr Ruger’s privacy had been respected . . . until now.

  Inside the second drawer lay a framed photograph of Otto Ruger. The image made Peter gasp and blink with horror. Otto Ruger in a Nazi uniform. Smiling beside Gestapo Chief Heinrich Himmler, who is speaking to Adolf Hitler on the steps of the Vienna town hall.

  Karin slowly picked up the photograph and held it for a moment, then tossed it back into the drawer as though it had burned her hand. “Mein Gott! Herr Ruger . . . he is . . . one of them!”

  A chill filled Peter, the same terrible fear he had felt during his walk through Vienna on Kristal Nacht. Suddenly the apartment felt heavy and dark around him, as though the walls had ears and eyes. Like creatures on exhibit in the zoo, he thought.

  “We must not stay here,” Peter said firmly, taking the photo from the drawer and looking closely at Herr Ruger as if to be certain that there was not some sort of mistake. No. No mistake!

  “I always thought he knew too much. A strange character, our Herr Ruger. Showing up with news of your father after the arrest. He has planned this. He has lured us here. Probably there are listening devices to hear us talk, about your father and—” She lowered her voice and looked wildly around at the walls. “What shall we do, Peter?”

  He put a finger to his lips, feeling the same paranoia. He pulled his mother into the bathroom and turned on the water to cover their conversation.

  “We cannot stay here. You are right. This is some sort of trap. Not just for us, but for Father.” Peter was convinced of it. “It is only a matter of time before they come for us here.” He slammed his fist against the sink. “We have been idiots! We trusted him!”

  Karin looked at her image in the mirror. She appeared years older than she had two months ago. Older than even a week before. She felt as if someone else was living through this nightmare. “Hurry, then,” she said wearily. “I will pack our things. Clean up. We can be ready in half an hour. But where will we go?”

  23

  Friends in High Places

  Half an hour later, the face of Peter’s mother was still pale and drawn, a colorless contrast to her red hair. Then Peter caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the bedroom mirror. His skin was as pale as hers. His red hair stuck up. He, too, looked frightened.

  Karin closed the door so that Marlene could not hear.

  “What are we to do now?” she asked hoarsely.

  “The entire neighborhood has been cleared,” Peter said again as if to convince himself of the truth.

  “I do not know what prison your father is in, where they have taken him. If anything happens, how will we know? And if he writes us, how will we get his letters?” Tears brimmed in her eyes. She seemed not to be thinking about Herr Ruger anymore or the possibility of listening devices planted in the walls. Peter hoped she would not cry.

  She looked at their luggage, remembering again why their clothing was packed. But they had no home to return to; the old neighborhood was dead, stamped out in one night.

  “The Nazis could not h
ave arrested everyone. There must be others like us. If we could find them, get away from here before Herr Ruger returns.” She wrung her hands and paced back and forth in the bedroom as Peter sat silent and thoughtful in the overstuffed chair beside the window.

  He lifted the edge of the shade and peered out toward Frau Singer’s shop. They had not seen any sign of the old woman. What had become of her?

  Peter closed his eyes and tried to think what his father might have done. No answer came to him. He drew his breath slowly and gazed out over the snow-dusted skyline of Vienna. In spite of the cold, two birds perched on the telephone wire just outside. Peter traced that wire to another and another. Telephone wires and electrical wires intact throughout the city. With a half smile he turned and looked first at the telephone and then at his mother.

  “Well, why don’t we just ring someone up?”

  She looked at him, as if he had gone mad. They had not even dared to lift the receiver, for fear the lines might somehow be connected to some unknown Nazi at the telephone exchange. Once, when Willie had pulled the telephone off the table, they had both rushed to pick it up, and had stared silently at the thing as if a Gestapo officer might crawl out of it.

  “Ring someone up?” Karin frowned at Peter. “You mean just like that? Telephone someone?”

  “If the lines are still working—and I can’t see why they wouldn’t be. The Storm Troopers broke windows and furniture, but they did not pull down the telephone lines.”

  She opened her mouth to protest, but closed it again and sidled up to the phone. Her fingers rested on it, questioning the wisdom of such a brash move. After all, if the walls were bugged, certainly the telephone would be as well. “Maybe it doesn’t matter,” she said, finally picking up the receiver. “Who? Who should we call?”

  “Frau Singer.” Peter looked out the window again as he mentioned the name of the old corset maker.

  “But her shop is closed.”