Wildflowers of Terezin (9 page)

For a moment he thought he could smell the motorcycle's exhaust, drifting up from the street below, until he realized it was a smoke of another sort—an amber cigar smoke, pungent and nose-tickling. This early? Now at least he had an excuse to step away from his desk, notes in hand, and to stretch his own legs.

Moments later he made his way out of the back door to join Pastor Viggo Jensen. Lost in thought and a cloud of home-rolled cigar smoke, the retired pastor looked up with a start from his spot by the garbage cans, almost as if Steffen had just caught a schoolboy sneaking a forbidden cigarette.

"Ah, Steffen! Didn't expect to see you here so early." Pastor Viggo peered out through his smoke screen and from under a pair of gray eyebrows made even more impressive by the near-lack of hair on the man's head. And like a matching bookend, his well-polished shoes reflected a smile as he glanced at the papers in Steffen's hand. "Working on your sermon? The story of the ten lepers?"

None other.

"Actually, yes. I was thinking how they received their healing after obedience. One of my commentaries has a bit about that. In the Greek,
hupakouo,
'I obey.' "

The other man smiled. "I actually do know a few words of Greek."

"Of course you do. But the point is, perhaps that's our situation here: If we obey King Christian's word, we may be healed as a nation. If not . . ."

"Hmm." Now Pastor Viggo wrinkled his forehead in concentration.Steffen could hear it coming.

"It's all a matter of obedience, don't you think?" continued Steffen, hoping to make a good enough impression to gain the elder pastor's approval this time. If he did, though, that would probably be a first.

"Perhaps," he continued, "but then the question would be, to whom?"

Steffen hadn't considered that way of looking at it. Pastor Viggo went on, as if he wasn't expecting an answer.

"And don't you have any personal experiences you might relate to that passage? Some practical application? How's your health these days? Anything you can be thankful for, after that accident of yours?"

"Oh, you don't mean after my little bicycle wreck?" Steffen shrugged away the experience. "I'm certain no one would want to hear about that."

"Really? Why not? Your brother seemed quite interested, when he came to check on you. Speaking of which, he's, ah, quite active these days, is he not?"

"Yes, his work at the bookstore keeps him busy."

Pastor Viggo paused again, as if waiting for more, then nodded his head.

"In any case," he said, "wasn't there something in this passage about how the fellow's faith made him well? You're well, are you not? I wonder if you couldn't tie in your experience that way?"

"Actually . . ." Steffen backed away from Pastor Viggo. He should have known the elder pastor would suggest a personal angle. And the personal angles, it seemed, would always make him look . . . well, foolish. "There's very little to explain. I lost my balance. They stitched me up quite well. That's about all there is to the story."

"Well, but I'm sure you'll think of something from one of your books, then," said Pastor Viggo. Now he seemed unflappable, as if this little exchange bothered him not the least."And I'll very much look forward to hearing it tomorrow. You always come up with something appropriate."

Yes, appropriate, thought Steffen. Safe. Unlike his brother.He thanked Pastor Viggo, wondering if he should not have stayed in his office with his friends the commentaries—where it was quiet.

IBSEN'S BOOKSTORE, KØBENHAVN

MONDAY, 27 SEPTEMBER 1943

Life can only be understood backwards;

but it must be lived forwards.

—SØREN KIERKEGAARD

Y
ou never told me where you got that gun, you know."Steffen didn't mean to sound like their mother when he spoke to his younger brother, Henning. It just came out that way, even when he lowered his voice to a whisper. And it wasn't hard to decipher Henning's reaction by the way he frowned as he leaned against a weighed-down shelf of dusty books.

"Why do you ask?" Henning lowered an upside-down copy of H. C. Andersen's
Collected Fairy Tales.
He looked more like a soccer player than a bookstore clerk. "You want to borrow it?"

"Borrow it?
Nej.
One of us getting arrested would be quite enough."

Henning fidgeted as he glanced around the cluttered little store, piled high with used books of all kinds in floor- toceiling shelves that groaned under the weight. None of the other three customers looked up from their books, and in fact seemed to making a good show of ignoring the entire exchange.

"Look," said Steffen. "I just thought we needed to talk about . . . you know, what happened the other day. I don't want you getting in more trouble."

"Who said I was in trouble?" Henning pushed aside a lock of blonde hair with an irritated puff of air. He had always worn his hair too long, even when they were both in Gymnasium, before Steffen went on to the School of Theology at the University of København and Henning dropped out.

"I'm not saying you are, Henning. But listen to me. Have you already forgotten what they did to that
Times
editor last month . . . what was his name?"

"Clemmensen."

"Right. Clemmensen. And what they did to him is exactly what they do to anybody else who sticks his neck out."

"I'm surprised you knew anything about him."

"Clemmensen was an editor for the biggest paper in København, for goodness sake!"

"A shame too. I hear he was a good man."

"
Was,
Henning. Past tense. They killed him, don't you see?"

"Oh, I see, all right." Henning didn't back away. "But he's not the only one, you know. A kid named Nicolai Nielsen was shot and killed last night. Two of our other people were badly hurt. And do you know how old he was?"

Obviously Steffen had no idea, so Henning went on.

"Sixteen. The kid was just sixteen! And the thing was, even at that age he was willing to give his life for what he believed."

"Sixteen." Steffen shook his head in disbelief. "This is starting to get really dangerous. I think you need to be more careful."

"Me? You're just getting out of the hospital, and you're telling me to be careful? That's a good one."

"Yes, I'm well aware of how it sounds. The difference is, you're directly involved, and I'm not. I'm just saying that you ought to consider getting out of this while you still can."

"Not this conversation again." This time Henning's face flushed as he ran his fingers through his hair, and turned back again. "But you're right about one thing. Things
are
getting worse. I've heard the Nazis are making plans to round up every Jew in Danmark."

"No, they wouldn't dare." Steffen crossed his arms. "This isn't Poland. This is their model protectorate. They've promised not to do that sort of thing here."

"You are so naïve." Henning slapped his own forehead with the palm of his hand.

"Now, wait just a minute. You—"

"No, you listen. You think you're being safe and neutral, and you don't even see what's happening. You think you see it, but you don't. And you know what? One of these days you're going to be riding your bicycle down the street again, and they're not going to miss."

"Who are we talking about, now? Who exactly is
they?"

"The Nazis. The sympathizers. Doesn't matter. Meanwhile you just go ahead, keep telling your people to 'Let every soul be subject unto the higher powers,' and you say they need to keep their heads inside their shells. Right? Isn't that what you say? The Nazis won't hurt us. They'll get tired of little Danmark and eventually they'll go home. Listen to yourself! Well, it's not working out that way. The only way these Nazis are going home is if we show them the door and push them out."

Steffen paced in a circle as he tried to make sense of it all.

"All right," he finally said, "so now I'm confused."

"You got that part right."

"
Nej.
I'm confused because just the other day you said I should stay in my church. Stick to my sermons. Isn't that what you said?"

"Did I say that? Well, after what just happened to that boy, I think maybe I'm changing my mind. Maybe I was wrong."

"My little brother, wrong? I've never heard those two words in the same sentence before."

Henning only smiled for a moment, then returned to his serious self.

"Ja,
well, lately the Nazis are shooting first, asking questions later. Everyone can see they're getting desperate. Our people have to respond."

"But not like this. Not with violence."

"Well, if you don't choose a side, if you just stand in the middle of the tracks, you're going to get run over by this train, brother."

"Henning, you really don't understand my position.You—"

"
Nej,
this time you're the one who doesn't understand, Pastor. If you keep playing the middle, next time whoever's shooting in the street might think you're a
stikker.
And you know what they do to them."

"That's ridiculous. How could anyone possibly think I'm collaborating with the Germans?"

"I'm just saying, 'He who is not with me is against me,' right? Isn't there something in your Bible like that?"

Steffen didn't like the way his brother said
your
Bible.And that was about all of a lecture he cared to hear, for now.This wasn't what he came here for. In fact, what did he come here for? To look up a book, the way he often did? To convince his brother that working in the Resistance was getting too dangerous? He stepped over to the window and pulled out a volume of Kierkegaard's
Enten/Eller
from the display.
Either/Or.
Funny that it would have a place in the window next to a collection of fiction, like Jensen's
The Long Journey
or Dinesen's
Out of Afrika.
Perhaps a customer had replaced it there without thinking.

"Hey, don't touch that!" Henning stepped out from behind his counter and grabbed the book from Steffen's hand before replacing it carefully in the stand where it had been propped up.

"My apologies. I thought you sold books, here."

That would be more than enough arguing for one day.Steffen started for the door, but his brother held him back by the arm.

"Look, Steffen, I'm sorry. But the book has to stay right there in the window." He paused and sighed, a hand on his hip. "It's a signal, okay? When Kierkegaard is in the window, it's clear for my contacts to come inside."

And do what? Steffen paused to let his brother's words sink in, and he wondered what else was going on right there in the shop, right under his nose. What about the other customers, who still seemed absorbed in their reading? Maybe they all worked for the Resistance, as well.

"What if it's not clear?" he asked, wishing instantly that he had not.

"H. C. Andersen."

"Kierkegaard clear, Andersen away. Come in for theology, stay away from fairy tales."

"Something like that." But Henning's expression darkened and he pressed his lips together the way he always did when he was in trouble. All right, then. Steffen didn't need to know any more. He didn't
want
to know.

"I shouldn't have come, Henning," he finally said. "I was just wanting to talk some sense into you. But after our conversation, and what happened the other day, I can see I've made a mistake."

"You said what you had to say, big brother. I appreciate that, believe it or not. And look, I . . . I shouldn't have said what I did. I was out of line. It's just that when you start talking at me the way
Far
used to do . . . you know how that is."

Unfortunately, Steffen did know. And he would take that as an apology, though he wasn't sure how much he liked the reference to their father. By that time he noticed a man stopping by the window outside, tugging the brim of his hat a little more tightly over his eyes before glancing toward the Kierkegaard book, the briefest of glances and nothing more.

"I really should be going," Steffen told his brother. "Take care."

"I hope you do too, Steffen."

This time Steffen tried not to look at the man as they slipped past each other in the doorway, one coming and the other going as the little bell on the front door jangled with a cheer that seemed so clearly out of place.

So each brother clearly thought the other was in greater danger, did they? Steffen could see that now. He just couldn't quite see who was right this time.