Fire and Steel, Volume 6

by Gerald N. Lund

He read the note one last time, then tore it into strips, then tore them in half again. There was a storm grate just to his right. Checking both ways again, he bent down and fed the pieces of paper through the grate, pleased to hear the gurgle of water running beneath the street. But just to be sure, he kicked more snow into the grate, then set off for home at a swift walk. A single word came into his mind again and again.

  Finally!

  February 13, 1938, 8:52 p.m.—Reichenbachstrasse, Old Town District

  The women of the Eckhardt family moved along the darkened street, staying close behind Hans, who would flash the light on the front entrance of each house to see if there was a house number. Most had no numbers at all, which was no surprise because about seventy-five percent of the houses were dark and obviously abandoned. Front screens hung crazily on one hinge. Railings on the porches were broken. Junk littered the front yards. Those windows that had not been boarded over had most of the panes broken out.

  Hans turned as he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Lisa, and in the pale light of flickering streetlamp, he saw the fear in her eyes. “This is creepy, Papa. Are you sure we’re in the right place?” she whispered.

  “Yes. We just have to find which one is number 44.”

  Jo came up to the two of them. She grabbed Lisa’s arm and moved in close to her. “This can’t be right, Papa. There’s no one here.”

  Hans turned to them as Emilee and Inga quickly joined them. “Do you know why? Because this is a Jewish neighborhood. This whole area of Old Town is heavily Jewish. In fact, there is a synagogue just a couple of streets over from here.”

  Lisa looked around. “Then where is everyone?”

  “Not sure. My guess is that these houses belonged to Jews who have fled the country,” Hans said. Or who have been arrested and hauled off to the camps. But he didn’t say that, of course.

  Just then, lights flashed. Ahead of them, a small utility truck had come out of an alley and turned their way. “Walk the other way,” Hans hissed. “Slowly. Don’t look at it as it passes.” They did as instructed, stopping only when the truck had rumbled past them and disappeared.

  Emilee moved over beside Hans. “I don’t like this, Hans. It could be a trap.”

  “It was Alemann,” he said. “I know it was.”

  “Here,” Lisa called in a hoarse whisper. “Number 44. But there’s no one here either.”

  She was right. In the faint light of the next streetlamp, this house looked even more dilapidated than the others, if that was possible. Every window was covered with sun-blistered plywood. On the front porch, a child’s tricycle with a twisted front wheel blocked the door. “Stay here,” Hans said. He stepped over the rotting fence and started up the walk. Just then a beam of light flashed past him, then was gone.

  Hans jumped and whirled around. It had come from across the street. He felt the back of his hair start to rise. Again the light flashed, only this time it stayed on for three or four seconds, just long enough for him to see its source. It came from behind a bush in an empty lot across the street. And it had stayed on long enough for him to see a dark shadow, and a hand illuminated in the light beckoning them to come.

  He moved quickly back into the street. “Alemann?” he cried softly.

  “Quiet!” a voice hissed. “No lights. No talking. Three doors farther down there’s an alley. Hurry.”

  The figure, clothed totally in black and with a hat pulled down so it partially covered his face, met them the moment they turned into the alley. Without a word, he motioned for them to follow and started away. It was almost pitch black, but every couple of seconds, the flashlight would shine briefly, pointing the way. The man did not speak, and neither did they until they came to the back of a two-story home that was boarded up like the others. He led them up onto the small porch and quickly produced a key. When he opened the door, there was no sound, and Hans realized the hinges had to be oiled. Once inside, the man locked the door behind them and turned the flashlight on, keeping it pointed away from them. “We’re safe now,” he whispered in the voice they knew so well. “But still no talking until I say. Watch your step.”

  As he led them through the house, which was even blacker than it had been out in the alley, Lisa felt her skin start to crawl. In the glow of the flashlight, they saw decay and neglect at every turn. The smell of dust and mold assaulted her nostrils. They passed through a kitchen where the linoleum was worn or missing. Cupboards had been taken off the wall and smashed. A splash of white marked where someone had knocked over—or dumped out—a flour canister. Every corner was draped with cobwebs that looked years old, or spider webs that looked brand new. Lisa shuddered as she brushed one with her arm.

  And the cold. Even though they had brought their winter coats, mittens, and scarfs, the chill seemed twice as cold as it had been outside. All Lisa could think of as she followed her family through the house was, He lives here? Where are Richelle and Erika and Leyna? Was this really Alemann? If so, why wouldn’t he show his face?

  Moving carefully but swiftly, he led them up a flight of stairs, keeping his flashlight covered with his hand so that they had just enough light to see where they were stepping. On the second floor, they passed three open doorways that opened into pitch-black rooms—bedrooms, Lisa assumed. He went right by them. Up a second flight of stairs they went, only here the stairs were very narrow and very steep, and Lisa was glad that the unpainted banister seemed solid. This had to lead up to an attic, which made her even more creeped out than she already was.

  When they reached the top of the stairs, their guide stopped, holding the light out so it illuminated the stairs as they came up. Once all of them were beside him, he flashed the light around, revealing that they were in a narrow room with a sharply pitched roof. It was even colder than it had been below. Then Lisa saw starlight through a long, thin gash in the roof and noticed that snow had drifted into one corner of the room. Their breath was visible in ghostly white puffs in the dim light.

  And then something quite amazing happened. Motioning for them to wait, their guide crossed the attic until he came up against the back wall. It was a solid wall, made of lath and plaster. But he walked right up to it, paused, then rapped twice, then twice more.

  A moment later, there was a scraping noise, like wood on wood, and a rectangle in the wall opened and warm light flooded the attic. Startled, Lisa jumped back, then gasped. Through the narrow door she could see inside a brightly lit, comfortably furnished room. Warm air rushed out to greet them. And there in the doorway stood Richelle Zeidner and her two daughters, tears in their eyes and smiles on their lips.

  Their guide reached up and pulled his hat off. With it came a man’s wig of black, matted hair. Alemann Zeidner then reached inside his jacket and removed a blue yarmulke and placed it on his head. Then he motioned for them to enter. “Welcome to our humble abode, dear friends. I can’t tell you what it means to us that you would come.”

  9:09 p.m.

  Hans and Alemann stayed back, smiling as they watched the reunion before them. Inga, Emilee, and Richelle were holding hands as they spoke quietly. The four girls had moved off to a corner, and Jo was marveling at the physical transformation Erika and Leyna had undergone since she had seen them last. Hans looked around the room. It was not much more than twenty feet square, with another ten or fifteen feet under the sloping eaves of the roof. There were two beds there, divided by a blanket thrown over a rope between them. One wall was lined with unpainted shelves filled with cans, bottles, and sacks of nonperishable food and large jugs of water. The furniture was equally simple but well cared for—a kitchen table with four chairs, a small dish cupboard with a hotplate on the top, a smaller sink built into the wall, a settee barely big enough to hold two adults, and one small overstuffed chair and rack beside it filled with magazines and newspapers.

  What caught and held Hans’s eye, however, was a shelf over the sink. On it
was a brass menorah, the seven-branched candlestick that symbolized Judaism, and two lovely silver candlesticks—Shabbat candlesticks, which were lit each Friday evening just before sundown to help welcome the Sabbath into their home.

  In the last year, Hans had surreptitiously studied Judaism in an attempt to help him understand what had caused this family to totally uproot their lives and put themselves in constant danger. He hadn’t really found satisfactory answers yet, but he had come to realize the deep reverential power found in these sacred and symbolic signs of their faith.

  Finally, he turned to his friend. “This is amazing, Alemann. When we entered the attic, I would never have known there was another room here. Did you do all this?”

  Alemann hooted in delight. “Me? The college professor who can’t hang a picture on the wall without blackening his thumb? Hardly.”

  “And is this where you live now?”

  “Nein, nein. We’ve had to make some sacrifices, but this is a little too Spartan for us. No, we live in a modest home not far from here. This is our fallback refuge, in case things start coming apart. Each of us has a suitcase beneath the beds with clothing, new passports, and identity papers.” He smiled thinly. “You know, just the normal things that every good Jewish family needs nowadays.”

  “Unbelievable,” Hans finally said. “From outside the house looks totally abandoned.”

  “It was until we bought it. As you saw, about three quarters of this neighborhood has been abandoned. Most of them fled the country. A few were trucked off to Dachau for various political crimes.” He hooted softly. “A nice euphemism for being Jewish or owning a house or a shop that one of the Nazi Party bosses covets.”

  Hans began to unbutton his overcoat as he continued to look around, but Alemann reached out and stopped him. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to speak with you. Can you stand the cold for a little while?”

  “Of course.”

  “Richelle?” When she turned, “Hans and I will be just outside. I’ve got a few things to discuss with him.”

  “All right. We’ll have some cookies with tea or hot cocoa when you’re done.”

  Alemann waved and went through the door, with Hans following close behind. He moved across the attic to a window and pulled back a curtain, letting in faint light from the streetlamps below. Close by, there were two stools. He took one and motioned for Hans to take the other. “Sorry about the cold.”

  Hans waved that away. “I can’t tell you how good it is to see you all again. My daughters barely slept last night.”

  “Mine either,” he laughed softly. He leaned forward. “I don’t think it would be wise for you to stay more than an hour, so let’s get to it. By the way, I shadowed you from the trolley stop. No one was following you. Besides me, that is.”

  “That’s good. I was careful too. I am anxious to hear what has happened to you, where you went.”

  Alemann smiled. “Let me quickly catch you up on what’s been happening. After we left you that night, we drove to Ulm. I knew we couldn’t leave from here—too much chance that someone might recognize us at the train station. From Ulm we caught a train to Hamburg. From Hamburg we sailed to Southamptom. We were in England only for a week, then, using different identity papers, we sailed on to New York.”

  “Did you become American citizens?”

  “No, no. As we told you that night, we decided that we do not want to emigrate unless there is absolutely no choice. Germany is our home. We just needed to stay away until we were sure no one was looking for us anymore. There is a huge Jewish community in New York City, especially in Brooklyn. I mean almost a million Jews, if you can believe it. So it was very easy to blend in and return to the roots of our faith at the same time.”

  “Did you and Richelle go back to your original family names?”

  He shook his head. “We talked about it but decided that we had to cut all possible ties to the past. No, we took on completely new identities. It’s cost us a lot of money, but each time we have moved we have changed our names and family history.”

  “Each time? How many times is that so far, for heaven’s sake?”

  “Three. We lived in New York for seven months, then came back here under different names and moved into the Jewish community in Hamburg. We were there until about six weeks ago, when we decided it was finally safe for us to come back home. The Jewish community here isn’t nearly as large as in Hamburg—it’s down to about five or six thousand now with so many fleeing the country—but it’s still large enough for us to blend in without being conspicuous.” He smiled ruefully. “And, we don’t ever go for walks in Schwabing for old times’ sake. In fact, we don’t even own a car anymore. No need when the totality of our lives takes place in such a small radius.”

  “And what are your names now?” Hans asked.

  “Uh . . .” Then Alemann shook his head. “To you and your family we’re still just the Zeidners. But here we are someone else, and. . . .”

  “And it is better we don’t know who you are. Of course, Alemann. It was foolish to ask.”

  Alemann straightened. “But enough of this, Hans. Tell me about my old nemesis, Herr Doktor Eberhardt. Does he ever make mention of me?”

  “Ha!” Hans retorted. “It is like you never existed. In fact, he came to my office a couple of months after you left and broadly hinted that if I still had any of your books in my library, I should burn them. Not just get rid of them. Burn them. It was hard not to laugh in his face.” He grinned. “And by the way, they are at the bottom of a stack of boxes in our basement. But I was highly offended that he had assumed that I would be so foolish, and he profusely apologized.” Hans shook his head. “He is such a pompous fool.”

  “And your thesis?”

  “Done!” Hans said. “And thanks to you, I’m an assistant professor with tenure now.”

  “Wunderbar! Ah, Hans, that makes me so happy.”

  Hans nodded then leaned in. “Are you sure it was wise to come back to Germany so soon? We read in the papers all the time about how the Jews around the country are being treated.”

  “Since the Nuremberg Laws stripped us of citizenship, it’s become open season on our people. No non-Jew dares to do business with us. They’ll be shamed by their neighbors and even reported to the Gestapo. So many of our families are really struggling to keep their heads above water. But that’s not the worst of it. From time to time we have bands of hooligans come into our neighborhoods. They smash a few windows, knock a few heads. They particularly go after the Hasids, the strict orthodox Jews. They’re the most conspicuous with their beards, black hats, long dark coats, and side curls. To a Hasidic Jew, to have one’s beard cut off is considered to be a great shame. That’s why the thugs do it.”

  Hans rubbed at his chin. “But you wear a beard, which makes you look very distinguished, by the way. Have they come after you too?”

  “Not so far. I keep my beard trimmed short. And my clothes are not the same. So thus far, I haven’t been accosted.” Alemann turned and peered out the window. “But they come in and throw rocks through store windows, tear off our prayer shawls at the synagogue, beat a few people up, urinate on us, leave dog feces on our doorsteps. And they think it is hilarious.”

  Hans shook his head. “Did you know this was happening before you left America?”

  “We did.” There was a wan smile. “So why come back, then? Surely you remember our little mantra, Hans. ‘Jews are the chosen people.’ ‘Chosen for what?’”

  Hans finished it for him. “‘Chosen for suffering.’”

  “Ja, ja,” Alemann said. “But it is not as bad as we make it sound. Those things happen, but they are the exception. Life is basically good here. Simple. Quiet. I teach history in the Jewish secondary school. Richelle has several piano students now, using the piano at the school. Our biggest worry is that someone will recognize us from our old lives, so we o
nly rarely leave the confines of our neighborhood.” He turned and faced Hans directly. “But I don’t want you feeling sorry for us, Hans. Richelle and I are happier than we have been in years. It was the right thing to do.”

  “And the girls seem happy too.”

  “They are. They have totally embraced our new life. I’m so proud of them.” He sighed and decided to change the subject. “Nothing else from the Gestapo?”

  “Nothing. Not a word. Not a call. No sign of any surveillance, and I’ve watched for that carefully. I think the thing that convinced the colonel was how angry I was that you ‘swindled’ me out of five thousand marks.”

  “Das ist gut. My old source in Berlin has checked on us as well. Good news. He says there is a notation in my file that they have solid evidence that the Zeidner family emigrated to America and are no longer a threat to the Fatherland. The case is closed. Though there is also a notation,” he added sardonically, “to arrest us on sight if we ever return. Which we do not plan to do, of course.”

  “Of course not,” Hans chuckled.

  “And your file concluded with a statement something like this. ‘All indications are that Hans Otto Eckhardt was duped and defrauded by his friend and colleague. He is a former high official in the National Socialist Party with a sterling reputation. Investigation closed.’”

  Hans was startled. “It really said that? That is a huge cloud lifted from over our heads.” Then he instantly regretted that. “I’m sorry, Alemann. That was thoughtless of me. That cloud will never go away for you. Not as long as Hitler is in power.”

  “And that is life, my friend,” Alemann said softly. “And it is the life we chose. And there are no regrets.” He drew in a breath. “But enough of the gloom. Tell me about Lisa and Benji. I’m sure that my girls are peppering Lisa about him too. Any talk of marriage?”

  “None. That’s the agreement they made with each other for the duration of his mission. And it’s a wise one.”

  “I agree. And when is he released?”