Will and Walt climbed up and sat on the resulting platform like proud princes. Their aunt Rese flopped back across the top of her parents’ cart, folding her hands across her stomach, and closing her eyes while more and more refugees began climbing into the boxcar with the last of their belongings.
The space was soon uncomfortably full. The SS left open the sliding doors on both sides of the car and hung lengths of heavy chain across the openings. Adeline understood why. They’d need the air. As people had crammed into the car, the air had gotten thicker with stale human sweat and fear of the unknown. She herself began to feel closed in, cornered, claustrophobic.
“I’m going to try to stand by the door for a minute,” she told Emil.
“I’ll go with you,” Malia said.
“I’ll go, too!” Will said.
“You’ll stay with Papa,” Adeline said firmly, fighting the panic growing in her.
She began to slip and to slide forward through the crowd, excusing herself, but insistently stepping over someone’s feet or around their backs and between their belongings. She had to get to fresh air or she’d scream. Finally, she reached the open door and held on to the door frame, gulping the fresh air. Malia did the same beside her.
“I couldn’t breathe,” Malia said. “I wanted to fight to get out.”
“I did, too,” Adeline said, and laughed softly, putting her hand to her chest and her still-thumping heart. “I thought—”
The train lurched and almost threw them off their feet. Adeline had to grab her sister to keep her from falling even as everyone in the car shouted in surprise. The train wheels creaked slowly forward over the rails amid nervous laughter, and quickly chatter of what was to come replaced concern over what they’d left behind. Within one hundred and fifty meters after rolling from the rail yard, the train slowed to a stop again.
Both Adeline and Malia gasped at the scene before them. They gazed out across a still and placid backwater of the Crisul Repede River, which perfectly reflected the purple bruised sky, and the roiling thunderclouds and the shafts of golden last light pouring down on the pool beside the gorgeous pale ruins of a large building on the far side.
“It’s like a painting,” Malia said.
“It is,” Adeline said, entranced by the scene. “The roof, the dome is all caved in, and yet it’s so . . . beautiful. I wonder what that building was? The way it glows like that.”
A woman behind her said, “It was a Jewish synagogue. The Germans blew it up last year.”
The train started to roll again, picking up momentum, leaving the haunting, beautiful scars of Oradea and Romania behind them. Adeline still did not understand why Hitler hated the Jews as much as he did, no more than she understood why Stalin would starve his own people after killing the ministers and priests and burning down the houses of God.
What possesses men to do such evil? Are they even human? Can’t they see that when you kill someone or destroy a holy place, the faith always goes on? Don’t they see that in broken hearts and ruins, something always glows?
Feeling the wind building against her face as the train gathered speed, Adeline tried to put all that out of her mind, tried to enjoy the warm wind and the smell of oncoming rain and night. But she thought of Mrs. Kantor’s friend, Esther, and wondered where she’d ended up, whether she’d made it to Argentina or Palestine. She could only imagine. Those places sounded so far off, so exciting, so scary, so good, she shivered.
A whole new life somewhere. Free to do whatever we want. In peace.
Try as Adeline might, however, she could not dream up another vision for herself beyond the memory of that painting of that mythical green valley in Mrs. Kantor’s book.
“Does it scare you?” Malia asked, breaking her thoughts. “Not knowing?”
They were traveling through farm country in the twilight with lightning and thunder rumbling in the distance. She looked at her older sister. “Not knowing what?”
“Where we’ll be when this journey’s over.”
For a beat, she stared at Malia with great curiosity. It wasn’t the first time her sister seemed to know her thoughts or at least mirrored them.
“Not really,” Adeline said. “I have faith we will end up where we’re supposed to be.”
“But where is that?”
“Emil says we’ll know freedom when we see it.”
“Everything else is just a stop on the way to your green valley?”
“Or a step in that direction. I think that’s right.”
To Adeline’s surprise, her older sister suddenly hugged her tight and said, “Thank you for being here. Helping me. And Mother. I . . . I couldn’t bear us all being apart.”
Then she burst into tears. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Adeline.”
This was the most upset she’d seen Malia in years, and she held tight to her, saying, “You’ll never be without me. I’ll always be with you. I am your baby sister, aren’t I? I need my big sister, don’t I?”
Malia relaxed her bear hug and, blinking back tears, gazed at Adeline with an adoring smile. “You do.”
April 27, 1944
Budapest, Hungary
The train traveled through the night, and in the first light of dawn entered the city. Hungary and Germany had been allies earlier in the war, but in March 1944, Hitler initiated a coup, and his forces now occupied the city. The Martels saw tanks and heavy fortifications ringing the rail yard outside Keleti Station.
Waffen SS soldiers awaited them on the platform. To prevent a stampede, the SS had the train unload boxcar by boxcar, back to front, making the extended Martel clan among the first to debark and push and pull their little wagons down the platform, all the while gaping at the ornate interior of the train station: the carved marble stanchions, the grand domed ceiling, and the spiderweb skeleton of the huge arched window and clock at the far end. Even with all the Nazi flags dangling from the rafters, Adeline thought it was the most breathtaking place she’d ever been.
They moved toward double doors where sentries were checking papers. Will hung onto Adeline’s skirt, while Walt marched resolutely beside her. They went through the doors and out onto a plaza where they were hit by a barrage of foreign noises blaring from a bazaar of exotic sights, smells, and languages. Adeline’s attention darted everywhere, trying to catch it all, especially the buildings, tall and crafted, intricate and awe-inspiring after their dreary life in rural Ukraine. It was all so fantastic, she thought she might have slipped into a heavenly dream.
Then she saw Emil stiffen, and understood why. Her dreamy state vanished. Ahead of them as they left the plaza, Sturmbannführer Haussmann stood at the top of the stairs that led to a large building with a huge Nazi flag hanging from its upper windows. He was watching his soldiers direct the refugees. As the Martels passed beneath Major Haussmann’s glare, Adeline felt the menace of the man even before she dared to glance up to find him gazing down at her family with amusement.
“Send the Martels to the south camp,” Haussmann shouted down. “Everyone in that family.”
The soldier in front of them stood aside and gestured after several other families already moving south with armed Waffen SS soldiers leading them.
“Why are we going this way?” Adeline said. “The others are going more to the north.”
Her husband looked back at her, his face ashen. “I don’t know.”
They had to walk only several blocks before the soldiers turned left at a wide iron gate in a high stone wall. The families ahead followed, vanishing from Adeline’s sight.
“I don’t like this, Emil,” she said.
“I don’t like it, either. But I don’t see much choice at this point, do you?”
When they reached the gate, a sentry motioned them through into what Adeline at first took to be a large and beautifully tended garden with dozens of white stones set in patterns before a marble spire at the center of the space. But then she realized with growing unease that the white stones were al
l monuments. They’d been led into a vast formal cemetery.
Chapter Fourteen
Emil saw the gravestones before Adeline did, flashed on Haussmann that night outside Dubossary, and felt his knees turn to rubber and his gut roil.
“Emil,” Adeline called to him.
“I know,” he said, not looking back at her, but at the young SS officer turning toward him with a curt nod.
“You may find a spot to camp beyond the state cemetery,” he said, gesturing southeast toward a line of trees. “It’s a big park, really. With graves. But with the walls and the patrols, this is the safest place for you and your family. In the park to the north, there is no wall, and refugees have been attacked in the night.”
Emil took a deep breath. Maybe Haussmann was just being kind when he sent us here, which means he still has no idea who I am.
“Thank you,” he said, relieved. “How long will we be here?”
The officer looked at his watch, annoyed now. “Until a train frees up to take you north. There will be a truck with fresh water here within the hour, and latrines are being built in the far southwest corner of the park. Use them. We don’t want diseases any more than you do.”
Emil led them down the lane, past that marble spire, which they all paused to gawk at before heading toward a line of locust trees along a path that curved into a shadowed grove with grassy openings, and in almost every one, a monument or statue in remembrance of some past king or statesman or poet.
There were other families in the first six or seven likely camping spots. They kept pushing and pulling the heavy wagons, but no one complained. Emil glanced back and saw them all transfixed by the place. The trees thinned and the path narrowed as they walked into an open-air mausoleum with grand colonnades of granite and marble flanking the wide path through. On the back walls of the colonnades, there were crypts from one end to the other.
“There,” he said, gesturing to two dark, almost charred-looking crypts in the right colonnade. “We can sleep beneath that roof if it rains. And it looks like someone’s built a fire there before.”
He pulled the little wagon up onto a flat spot there. Adeline looked unhappy and flicked her hand at the scorched bas-relief faces of demons on the crypts.
“I don’t like them,” she said, looked around, and then pointed down the colonnade toward one with a large angel on it. “I’ll feel better there.”
“I agree,” Malia said.
“Yes,” said Karoline.
Emil knew better than to argue with three women and pulled the little wagon over in front of the crypt with the statue of the winged angel. He gave the carving no more than a passing glance before getting back to work.
More families appeared while the Martels unpacked, and they, too, began making camp under the roofs of the colonnades. When their wagon was emptied, Emil left in search of firewood and water, with Walt and Will standing in the wagon as if it were a chariot. Against a steady stream of refugees from the train, he pushed the wagon and his boys back the way they’d come through the park and graveyard.
Near the front gate, the water truck had only just arrived. Emil was feeling happy that he’d get to fill his water bag before the line got too long, when out of the crowd of refugees came Nikolas. He didn’t seem to notice Emil at first. But then Nikolas did see them, and he ambled over and used his height to loom over Walt and Will, who eyed him suspiciously.
“Fine young German stock,” Nikolas said, and nodded to Emil with that oily smile. “You must be proud of your bloodlines. I know the major was.”
Emil hated the man. He knew in his gut that Nikolas was not only a stone-cold killer, he was a persecutor, someone who wallowed like a pig in another man’s pain. If Emil allowed it, Nikolas would continue to goad and poke him for weakness, and he would show him none. He knew there were times to fight and smarter times to wait. He said nothing.
Nikolas’s smile vanished. He tilted his head slightly and studied Emil.
“There’s something about you, Martel. Something that’s off.”
“Why do you care?”
“Because in the Selbstschutz, the militia, it was my job to care, to tell the Nazis the truth behind people who told so many lies. Like you, Martel.”
Emil had no idea what power if any Nikolas held over him, but it was better to be safe than sorry. “I’m here for water for my family,” Emil said. “Nothing more.”
Nikolas looked like he wanted to continue, but Emil pushed by him and got in line. When he looked back, the executioner was gone.
After filling the water bag full, Emil and the boys went looking for enough wood for a cook fire. Deeper into the cemetery, they found branches broken off trees during winter in a thicket near several SS soldiers who were standing around, having a smoke.
Gathering up the broken branches, Emil came near to them and overheard one soldier talking disdainfully. “Why are we guarding these ignorant peasants? These are the future of the Reich? You must be joking.”
“According to Reichsführer Himmler, I’m not joking,” said another soldier. “Or do you wish to tell the chief of the Gestapo that he is wrong about who is of pure Aryan blood and who is not? Their ancestors left Germany, kept mostly to themselves, and ran big farms and colonies in isolation for more than a century. Who else would have purer Aryan blood?”
Emil took a load of firewood to the wagon, helped the boys with their armfuls, and then returned to gather more.
The loud soldier was still talking. “At least these are almost the last of them. There will be fewer coming now. Good riddance, I say. Get the trains in here.”
“No trains to be had for at least a few days,” his friend said. “Himmler commandeered them for all the Yids outside Budapest. They’re starting at the Kistarcsa transit station. Those are the ones being taken north first.”
“Rats,” the loud one said, and spat. “Take them all, I say. Be rid of them for good.”
“Papa!” Walt called.
Emil picked up one last branch about the thickness of his wrist and walked back to his sons. He didn’t understand the exact meaning behind the words “being taken north,” but in light of their earlier conversation about the pure bloodlines, Emil got the gist and felt torn apart. The Nazis were still killing Jews, and he and his family were evidently supposed to replace them.
Emil and his sons returned to find the long mausoleum almost filled now with families making temporary homes against the crypts and among the statues of long-dead Hungarian royalty.
“I thought we would have the place to ourselves,” Emil said, pulling the little wagon and the boys up to their camp.
“We’re not so lucky,” Adeline said. “Look at the far end, other side.”
Emil acted as if he had not heard her as he turned to lift Will and then Walt from the wagon. But as he did, he got two good looks diagonally across the mausoleum courtyard, enough to know that Nikolas was camped there along with two of the men who’d been with him that night around the campfire back in Moldova.
He set Walt down and said, “Stack the wood near Opa. Make it a good stack.”
Armed with purpose, Walt reached into the wagon and left with an armful. Will did, too. When Emil looked across the courtyard again, Nikolas was leaning against a carved stone column, smiling over at him, his hand raised in a mocking Heil Hitler salute. Emil did not return the gesture and gave the man no outward reaction before helping Walt and Will with the last load of firewood.
But in his street-smart mind, he had seen that taunting salute as a direct threat to himself and to his family. Whatever the man’s relationship to the SS, Emil decided he could not avoid it any longer. It was time to protect his family, and the sooner the better.
He waited until it was almost dark, then excused himself and left their camping area, walked straight past Nikolas and his two friends, slowing to look at them and to spit in their direction. Leaving the courtyard, he trailed a steady flow of other refugees drawn by the distant lights the SS had pu
t up around the camp latrines.
He walked in the darkest shadows, which allowed him to keep peering back toward the colonnades. Not twenty seconds later, he recognized the tall silhouette of Nikolas ambling after him. Emil left the shadows then and let himself be seen the rest of the way to the latrine area, which was crowded. He used that to his advantage, ducking a little to blend in more, and then standing up straight enough to be seen as he pushed toward the long, low latrine tents.
Inside, he did not use the urinals or the toilets. The traffic was meant to be one-way, and Emil walked straight through the tent and out the other side.
He stood at the corner until he saw Nikolas enter the latrine tent at the far end, and then moved fast back in the general direction of the open-air mausoleum, the colonnades, and the encampment, but off the direct route by several degrees. A hundred meters out from the electric lights around the latrine, he stopped, panting in the shadow of a statue and watching the exit from the toilet.
“The only thing a man can rely on is himself,” Emil muttered, and felt his resolve harden to a place he’d learned to go during times of extreme starvation and want.
Nikolas appeared in the exit to the latrine, his head swiveling. Emil waited one count, then waved his arm like a windmill as he stepped out in the last good light of the latrine. He paused in profile to the light and then took three long, slow strides into the darkness.
Emil took two more steps out of Nikolas’s sight before crouching behind a large monument, reaching into his pocket, and pulling out a folding knife he used to slaughter farm animals.
The only thing a man can rely on is himself, he thought again. His heart raced. He breathed deep, trying to calm his nerves as his night vision got better and better.
The Last Green Valley Page 15