From the Ashes

by Sandra Saidak

  Adolf ran his hands through soggy hair, and then stared up at the ceiling, rather grateful for the spray of water that temporarily blinded him.

  “I really don’t know how to ask, but I have to know. Does Ilsa...? Are you and she...?”

  “What? Oh, no! Sheisse, you men are so slow! Ilsa isn’t that way at all! She’s been great with me, of course. Understanding. Sympathetic. And completely unavailable! I was so stupid! When she didn’t reject me right away, I thought I had a chance, and really pushed. She finally had to make herself painfully clear this morning. God, was it just this morning? It feels like years!”

  “I know what you mean. Did she say why?” Adolf leaned forward eagerly, almost bumping his wet face into hers. “Did she say anything about me?”

  “Sorry, your name didn’t come up,” Krista said coldly.

  Adolf felt himself blush. “Sorry. It’s just--look, I don’t know what to say in this situation! Do I challenge you to a duel? Or do we just shake hands and say, ‘may the best man win?’”

  “How typically male! Creating an edge for yourself, even in your platitudes!”

  Adolf thought about what he had just said. Suddenly, he burst out laughing. After a moment, Krista joined him. In the echo chamber of the shower, their laughter multiplied, louder even than the sound of running water. “They can probably hear us outside,” Adolf gasped when he had enough breath.

  “Good, maybe a few of them will come in and join us. Then we can both look at the girls!”

  Their laughter slowly subsided; they made eye contact and looked away. Finally, Adolf said, “I really hope everything works out for you, Krista. That, someday, you find someone, and stay safe.”

  “Thank you. You’ll never know how much that means to me. For what it’s worth, I think that if any guy has a chance with Ilsa, it’s you.”

  “Really?” For an instant, Adolf felt a rush of hope. Then he thought about the situation and shook his head. “Even if I did once, I lost it today. It’s my fault she’s in trouble.” He tried not to think about what might be happening to her now.

  “It was an accident, Adolf. You couldn’t have known--”

  “Yes I could have! If I had listened to her! She lives with it, every day: danger, fear, degradation. Having no protection from anything--”

  “Yes, Adolf, she lives with it! And she still chose to let us stay, even though she knows that if she insisted, we would have left. She chooses to open that crumbling museum to us, every day, and every Friday evening. To us, it’s a game. To her, it probably means death or deportation if some bureaucrat decides to look at what we’re doing as seditious or contributing to delinquency or some other nonsense.”

  Adolf was silent while Krista’s words sank in. “So why does she do it?” he asked finally.

  Krista shrugged. “I think her aura of mystery is what draws me to her. There’s more to her than meets the eye. But a lot if it is anger.”

  The hot water was nearly gone. Shivering, Adolf and Krista turned it off and went to the dressing room outside to wrap themselves in towels.

  “We should try to get some sleep,” said Krista. “Tomorrow...will probably be busy.”

  The next morning showed every sign of business as usual. The curfew was lifted; celebrations continued as planned, with only an extra heavy military and paramilitary presence to indicate anything had happened the day before.

  The broadcast station alternated coverage of the First Führer’s Birthday Celebrations with scenes from inside the interrogation rooms where three suspected accomplices of the bomber--two men and one woman--were questioned with the help of thumbscrews and electrodes.

  Adolf was up at first light, trying to pull himself together after a night without sleep. He stopped in the commissary for breakfast, where he discovered the smell of food made him sick.

  He gave up and walked to the Judenmuseum, terrified of what he would find when he got there, and heaving a sigh of relief when he arrived and saw it was open. The front window was now boarded up like all the others in the plaza, but once inside, he saw the glass had been swept up. A few displays were in disarray, but other than that, the place looked good. Ilsa, however, was nowhere to be seen.

  Adolf went into the back, to the room where they had hidden. It was empty. Then he heard noises: faint crackling sounds, then the scrape of a chair on a floor. They were coming from the closet or whatever was on the other side of the door he had noticed yesterday.

  He opened the door carefully, and found a cramped, cluttered office. Ilsa sat at a small desk, running a Geiger counter over a series of small objects. She was wearing full protective gear: helmet, gloves, leaded suit and goggles. Adolf felt underdressed.

  “What are you doing?” he finally asked.

  Ilsa pulled up the goggles and looked up at him. “Hi, Adolf.” She pointed to a large empty crate, marked ‘Haifa.’ “New shipment. Like I told you before, I check to see what’s safe and what’s not.” She pulled a heavy cloth, probably lead-filled, over the desk, got up, and began stripping off the protective gear.

  “Are you all right?” he asked. With the opaque layer removed, Adolf could see a bruise on Ilsa’s left cheek. Other than that, she seemed unharmed.

  She hung the suit on a hook in the back of the room, tucking the gloves into the pockets. “I’m fine,” she said. “How about you? And Krista?”

  “Fine,” said Adolf, growing angry, although he was not sure why. “What happened after we left?”

  “They questioned me. Messed the place up a bit. It wasn’t bad, really, Adolf. I’m still employed; still free to roam--as much as before, at least. It could have been much worse.”

  “I know. I just wish it didn’t have to be that way for you.”

  “I’ll go make some tea,” said Ilsa. “You should come out of there. It isn’t safe without the proper precautions.”

  Adolf knew that. Every school child did. What he didn’t know was where and how Ilsa had obtained a military grade hot suit--for that is what it was--and why she even opened boxes that came from obvious hot spots, and how he could believe that any of the regular visitors here were safe. And although he knew he should be moving in the opposite direction, Adolf found he was curious enough to walk up to the desk, and pull off the cloth with nothing to protect his hands. And then stare at what lay beneath.

  It was an assortment of Jewish artifacts. Most were small and all were damaged: a dreidel, a half melted menorah, several pocket sized books, two yarmulkes and a crumpled, but colorful ketubah, sealing some long dead couple’s marriage. Beside each item lay a scrap of paper, where Ilsa had scribbled the number of rads; they ranged from 3 to 50.

  On the floor beside the desk were a dozen similar items, each one mounted in a cheap, clear plastic mold, or set in an attractive wooden box.

  “Adolf, get out of there!”

  He turned to see Ilsa, holding his favorite tray, the glass mosaic patterned with blue and green Stars of David. A pair of steaming teacups lay on it.

  Adolf stepped out of the doorway. “Quite an operation you have here, Ilsa. Care to tell me about it?”

  She closed the door and took the tea to her desk. Adolf took his cup and perched on a stool, waiting, not sure what he would do if she said nothing.

  “One never knows when a little extra money might come in handy. And old war trophies still trade very well on the black market.”

  “How are Jewish relics trophies? They were made by a dead race; subhuman by official Party standards. Who would want them?”

  Ilsa sipped her tea. “In the final days of the Final Solution, it was mostly young boys who were recruited to run the termination camps; everyone else was needed to do the actual fighting. Many of them are still alive, old men now, who missed their chance for glory on the front lines. A few of them thought to take souvenirs at the time, but most did not, or lost what little they took. So they buy them, as reminders of the greatness of their youth, or to illustrate the stories they tell to anyone who will li
sten.

  “Others, who did nothing at all in the War, buy whatever souvenirs they can afford, to convince everyone else that they did something. They would probably prefer pieces of the Washington Monument or the Great Wall of China, or Dresden glass, but I sell cheaper than most, and a lot of these elderly trophy hunters are of limited means—they simply can’t pass up a bargain.”

  “Quite a bargain,” said Adolf, gazing at the closed door, as if it led to a death chamber--which, in fact, it did. “You’re willing to take smaller profits, for the satisfaction of sending your customers to their deaths.”

  Ilsa smiled. “Just doing my part,” she said.

  Adolf gulped his tea, nearly choking. He remembered the time that Ilsa had assured the group that she only kept relics that were safe. He had asked what she did with the rest. Now he had an answer. For a crazy instant, he wondered if would leave this room alive. Forget the late night movies, he told himself.

  “No one checks the merchandise?”

  “The people I deal with directly don’t hang on to it long enough to be at risk, and don’t particularly care about what happens to anything after it leaves their hands. As for the customers--if they had brains enough to check for themselves, they probably wouldn’t have had such dismal careers in the first place.”

  “Why do you do it?” Adolf asked.

  Ilsa stared into her empty cup. “Perhaps for the same reason I host Shabbat services every Friday night. A way to be someone. A way to bring meaning into an otherwise empty existence.”

  “A way to strike back at those who have wronged you?”

  Ilsa looked up, eyes ablaze. Yet her voice was ominously quiet when she spoke. “No one has wronged me, Herr Goebbels. Your father or your professors could explain that, if you are confused. ‘Only by sacrificing the imperfect can we hope to achieve perfection.’” Her fingers tightened around the teacup. “Those of us who are not killed outright should be grateful to serve our overlords in any capacity. I am treated this way because I deserve it. I am unable to bring forth life. Should anyone be surprised that I chose to bring forth death?”

  The teacup shattered in her hand.

  Adolf leapt over to her, gently pulling tiny shards from her fingers, relieved to see few cuts. He found a first aid kit in the bathroom, and put antiseptic ointment on each of them, and bandages on the worst. Ilsa showed no reaction at all.

  “Did they rape you?” he blurted out.

  “What?” Ilsa started as though waking up.

  “Those soldiers, last night?” Adolf realized he was very afraid of the answer, because he knew that if they had, he was going to kill all three of them with his bare hands, or die trying.

  Ilsa looked away. “What does it matter? Others have in the past. Others will in the future. And if you can’t learn to live with that, Adolf, it will, eventually, mean your death.” She turned to face him. “And that would be a great loss. One I do not wish to be part of.”

  Adolf bit his lips, but tears leaked out anyway. He wanted to lash out--at anyone. If he couldn’t get the men who had hurt her, or the government that made it happen, then he’d settle for strangling Ilsa--just for being so damned complacent about it!

  He felt her hand on his shoulder. He looked up, and saw no judgment in her eyes. “It isn’t your fault Adolf.”

  He took a shuddering breath. “Krista said you were angry. She didn’t know the half of it.”

  Ilsa smiled--with real amusement this time. “If Krista says I’m angry, I say that’s the pot calling the kettle black.”

  Adolf thought about that for a moment. “I don’t want to go there,” he said.

  Ilsa nodded. “Good idea.”

  Adolf took a deep breath. “I know this isn’t the time, and that you already know it anyway, but I love you, Ilsa.”

  Ilsa’s breath caught. “I...was rather hoping you wouldn’t say that.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. Adolf, I...I don’t know what to tell you. I like you...more than I expected to. More than is safe for me. But I don’t know if I can love anyone. At least in the way you mean.”

  “You can, Ilsa. Maybe not me, but someone. As much as you hate, you can love.”

  “That philosophy makes good poetry, but I’m not at all sure it’s accurate.”

  “Not for everyone. But it’s true for you. If all you had was hate, you’d be exploring careers in assassination and information extraction--and believe me, you’d be good! But you spend your days with Judaism and angst-ridden adolescents. There’s a kind of love in that. And I think…that’s just the beginning.”

  It was one of those rare moments when Ilsa looked surprised. “You’re a good friend, Adolf. I’m sorry I dragged you through my private hell, just now. You didn’t deserve it.”

  “Anytime you want company there, give me a call.” Hesitantly, he put his arm around her shoulders, and left it there while she sat stiff and undecided. Then slowly, she relaxed into his hold. After a moment, her hand sought his.

  They sat that way quietly for over an hour.

  Finally, Adolf gave her a gentle hug and straightened up. “I’ll go now,” he said stretching the kinks out of his neck and back. “But if there’s anything I can do for you, ever, please let me know.”

  “Keep coming to see me,” she said.

  Adolf suppressed an urge to jump with joy. “I will. And, hey, look at it this way: you have at least two college students pining for you. Third class citizen or not, you’re making conquests.”

  Ilsa grinned. “And what I lack in quantity, I make up for in quality--and variety.”

  “I’ll see you Friday.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  Book II

  CHAPTER 9

  “These are the names of the curators of the other thirty-seven Judenmuseums, and their addresses. Those who can be trusted are highlighted in red.”

  Adolf took the list from Ilsa. He was not surprised to find only four names highlighted.

  “Do you really think the Party will close them all?” asked Brigitta, a petite freshman who still wore her blond hair in schoolgirl braids.

  Ilsa tapped the official notice on her desk. “You can read as well as I can.”

  “It’s reading between the lines that you’re so good at,” said Peter. “Phrases like ‘new head of the Department of Education’ and ‘review of all resource allocation’ could mean so many things. And these museums are not the only public works facing the ax. It could take them years to actually shut us down. Or maybe never.”

  “True,” said Ilsa. “And these scares have happened before. But something tells me this time it’s for real. In that event, I want to make sure that as many books and relics as possible are safely stored, and all records doctored.”

  “So the number of relics they burn will appear to be all there ever were?” said Briggita.

  “Right,” said Ilsa.

  The door swung open, and Franz, now an assistant professor, came in, his stylish black overcoat snapping in the cold March wind. “I knew you’d all lose track of time! It’s 1100 hours, and we all have to be in the quad at noon--with our books. Let’s get going.”

  Briggita gasped and leapt to her feet. The others, used to the purges by now, were more relaxed.

  “We’re graduating in three months!” said Frederick, indicating himself, Adolf and Krista and Peter. “What’s the point of giving us new textbooks?”

  “Orders, my friend,” said Franz. “Just because my status has changed from student to faculty, doesn’t mean I can start questioning them.”

  “Let’s go,” said Krista. “We’ll come back and help you with this tonight if we can, Ilsa.”

  “You all go on ahead,” said Adolf. “I’ll catch up with you soon.”

  Everyone exchanged knowing looks. Ever since Adolf and Ilsa had been declared a couple, over two years ago, other members of the rapidly growing group had been careful to give them as much privacy as they could--and speculated at length at wha
t the two of them did when they were alone.

  The group filed out, Franz holding back. “I almost forgot, Adolf. Congratulations on your winning essay. You’re a sure thing for valedictorian, now.”

  “I’m still surprised it’s creating such a stir,” said Adolf. “Now, if the Party knew where I got the ideas for it, that would create a stir.”

  “Remember when you first thought of suggesting gleaning laws as a form of economic management?” said Ilsa, smiling. “You thought it would get you shot.”

  Adolf laughed. “As it turns out, all I had to do was change the names, translate some Hebrew and add three pages of fancy sounding gobbledygook! And now, they think I’m a genius.”

  Franz stopped at the door and looked back. “Don’t stay too long,” he said.

  As soon as he heard the door shut, Adolf wrapped his arms around Ilsa. He kissed her once, but then pulled away, despite the ardor of her response.

  “Have you thought about what you’re going to do, if they close the museums?” he asked. He hated to bring it up, as if talking about it would make his worst fears come true.

  Ilsa looked away. “Word among the other missgeburt is that reassignment is not likely. Unemployment in occupied territory is dangerously high. The Party will need all its jobs for them--even jobs once reserved for the lesser beings.”

  “So what will happen to the…missgeburt?”

  Ilsa shrugged. “Hard to say.”

  “How can you be so calm?” Adolf paced the cluttered room, wanting to hit something.

  “What would you have me do? Work myself up to burst blood vessels, like you’re doing?” Adolf opened his mouth to retort, but Ilsa put a finger on his lips. “Stop. We’ll deal with each crisis like we always have--as they come up. Now, I have work to do, and you have a book burning to attend.” She kissed him forcefully. “Get moving.”

  Adolf clicked his heels and saluted her.

  Another book burning. Another set of textbooks purged, and new ones assigned. For how long this time? The last one was just the past October.