From the Ashes

by Sandra Saidak

  This time, the seniors probably wouldn’t even get new books. The professors would simply give final exams based on lectures. Students who made it this far were not likely to fail. Adolf felt a pang as he thought of poor Klaus, expelled in his third year for poor grades and a frivolous attitude. He was in the army now; his unit somewhere in Northern Russia.

  Karl, at least, had graduated--though just barely, thanks to his taste for schnapps and his increasingly depressive attitude-- and moved on to an entry level job in the Department of Commerce. Franz and Heidi both remained on campus teaching. And, thought Adolf, if I can only manage to secure that position as assistant speech writer for the Minister of Communications, I could maybe do something to help Ilsa. It was an excellent job for a young man just out of University—though not as impressive as Josef Heydrich’s first post within the Führer’s Honor Guard, as Adolf’s father kept reminding him. Still, all the top ranking students were vying for this speech-writing job. With this latest award, Adolf felt he had a chance. And since one of the privileges included was an apartment, he might be able to hire Ilsa as a maid, or at least acquire the influence to get her a job somewhere.

  He would miss the museum crowd. In the four years that Adolf had been here, their numbers had grown to more than fifty. For some, it would always be a game, but more and more, Adolf sensed the presence of those, who like Franz, and Krista and himself, took it more seriously. It was still mostly a male crowd, although this year, at least, there were a few more girls.

  Just as Adolf reached the edge of the campus district, an Opal produce truck passed in front of him and pulled to a stop in front of a large grocery store. Eight heavily armed Wehrmacht soldiers stood before the store. Six more got out of the truck while it was being unloaded. While the crowds of people gathered at the entrances were well behaved today, Adolf crossed the street to avoid them. Trouble could start without warning, and he couldn’t afford to be late for the campus purge.

  Soon he would be going home, where the pantry never ran low, and no one thought to ask where all the meat and bread and fruits and vegetables came from. Even Adolf, who knew the servants better than most of the family, wasn’t clear on where they shopped, or why they needed no armed escort, or what would happen if someday, finding safe and abundant food would become too great a feat even for the Goebbels household.

  On a more positive note, Adolf would soon be meeting his nephew for the first time. He needed to think of a gift. Something that wouldn’t remind Frieda and Edwin of their first child, born without an immune system, as so many were, these days. She had lived only three weeks. At least little Paul Joseph seemed inclined to thrive.

  When at last he reached the quad, Adolf saw all the students gathered as usual. He slipped into the back of a group of seniors, among the young men he knew. The Headmaster’s speech was just ending. Then titles were called out. Adolf was surprised when they started, not with textbooks, but with novels that had been popular on campus of late. The first book to be called was “Sorrows of Young Werther,” by Johann von Goethe.

  More than thirty students, all of them male, and all wearing identical blue coats, yellows breeches and jackboots, came forward sullenly. They stacked their books in a pile, then to Adolf’s amazement, peeled off their clothing as well. The students were made to stand in the cold March wind wearing only their underwear while the books and costumes burned. Only after three more novels were collected and burned were the Werther followers allowed to return to their dorms.

  Adolf was grateful that senior textbooks were collected next. While he would not be free to leave until all the books were burned, with his arms empty, he could at least wander around the crowd. He spotted Professor Hoffman standing apart from the rest of the faculty, his mouth drawn into a tight grimace. Edging carefully in that direction, Adolf approached him.

  “It seems you are a prophet, Herr Professor,” Adolf said.

  “Excuse me?” the teacher looked startled.

  “Three years ago last December. We saw the return of Young Werther at a bookstore. You told me the book’s history, and predicted its future. Today, you are proven correct. As always.” Adolf smiled.

  Professor Hoffman acknowledged the praise with a nod, but did not return Adolf’s smile. “Sometimes, I would prefer to be wrong. Banning the book is one thing; even burning it, for that is the Party’s way of banning something. Very symbolic, like everything else in the Reich. But humiliating the followers that way? I see no good in that.”

  It had bothered him as well, but Adolf was surprised to hear a professor say such a thing. Although he knew none of the group personally, Adolf felt an affinity for any group of rebels with an identifying theme. It was like Judaism for him. But, of course, he couldn’t say that to Professor Hoffman, so he said, “It is a standard form of discipline. And a good way to set an example.” He looked cautiously at his favorite teacher. “Isn’t it?”

  Hoffman sighed. “I could quote you statistics and cite schools of thought dreamed up by great men whose names can no longer be spoken aloud in this land. But what of it? In the final analyses, it always remains that those who know not history are doomed to repeat it.”

  Adolf thought about that and nodded slowly. It seemed like an interesting notion. He wondered if the professor had been quoting someone and said, “Without textbooks, I shall look forward to your lectures even more, for whatever time remains.”

  For a moment, Hoffman’s eyes narrowed. Then he smiled pleasantly. “I see the party is breaking up. You’d better go study your notes, young Adolf, if you expect to pass my course!”

  Adolf filed out of the quad with the rest of the students, shaking his head, as he reflected that conversations with Professor Hoffman were always a little strange.

  Adolf waited for Ilsa to finish cataloging the last of the books. Then he picked up her valise. "I'm glad you decided to visit my home,” he said.

  "I decided a change might be good for me," Ilsa said, locking the Judenmuseum behind them. "I haven't been out of Berlin in some time. I only hope I don’t create problems for you. Even in disguise--” Ilsa held up her arms, swathed in the blue silk of the dress on which Adolf had spent most of his prize money “--your parents will probably figure out what I am.”

  “They’re only going to be in town the first two days. Then, they’re off to Austria for the Anniversary celebrations. But we can stay in Munich the whole week if you like. I know my sisters will love you.” As I do, he wanted to add, but restrained himself.

  For all the gossip surrounding Adolf and Ilsa, what none but the two of them knew was that their relationship was a chaste one.

  Sometimes, Adolf wondered if there was something wrong with him. Ilsa was willing enough. And he surely desired her. But every time things moved in that direction, Ilsa grew detached, as if she were offering her body--but taking the rest of her away somewhere. Someplace safe, he guessed. And then they would either fight over the subject of trust, or Adolf would suddenly remember an appointment he had somewhere else.

  They walked to the train station, dodging between heavy construction equipment and gangs of slave laborers. "The streets are so much cleaner now," said Adolf.

  "That's what happens when the new Führer has the head of sanitation shot," said Ilsa. "He's very efficient, this one."

  They reached the train station. Ilsa stopped on the front steps and took a deep breath. "The Judenmuseums are to be shut down," she said. “I received word this morning.”

  Adolf's head jerked up. "All of them?" he asked.

  "Yes, all. By the end of this year. The Department of Education has decided that maintaining relics of a dead race is a waste of resources."

  Adolf had been prepared for this, but he cursed anyway. "And what about you, Ilsa? Have they--?

  “Yes, Adolf, they have. I’ve been assigned work in a brothel. In Hamburg.”

  "What!” Adolf’s voice was loud. People turned to stare. Ilsa led him to a bench near the ticket counter, silently command
ing him to get a grip.

  "They can’t do that here!” he hissed as they sat down. “Only in occupied lands! The government cannot force German women..."

  "Normal German women," corrected Ilsa. "But, being barren, I am without the protection of citizenship. It isn’t just me, you know. My guess is, within a few years, all people with physical defects will be removed from society. Just as the mentally defective were removed in the first years of the Reich.

  "In the mean time, some of us missgeburt can still be useful--or at least used. They won't send me to an SS brothel; those are for fertile women, who can serve as vessels for the cream of the Aryan crop, but..."

  "How can you be so cool about this?" demanded Adolf. "Stop talking that way! You know I would never let that happen to you."

  Ilsa stood and stared down at him with piercing blue eyes. "How would you stop them, Adolf?”

  Adolf looked into her eyes. “I could marry you.”

  For so long, he had dreamed of saying those words to Ilsa. Generally, he imagined a more romantic setting than a train station.

  "It would ruin your future, Adolf.”

  “So what? My father can take my career and stuff it up is ass! If you think I’m going to stand by and let something like that happen to you…Have you seriously considered what you'll do if they send you--?"

  Ilsa sat back down and gazed up at the ancient clock tower above the station. "When France was first taken,” she said, “a Jewish girls boarding school was turned into a brothel for the infantry. It made sense: there were beds; there were girls. They were Jews, so no hand would be raised to protect them. But it was only in business for one night."

  "What happened?" asked Adolf, but he thought he knew.

  "The Nazis had neglected to secure all the gasoline and matches before sending the first crew of soldiers there. No one got out alive."

  Adolf wondered if he would have even cared a few years ago. Now he felt a surge of pride. And fear. "Is that what you will do?" he asked Ilsa.

  "Perhaps."

  "Damn it, Ilsa! Sometimes you scare me!"

  He might have said more, but a gesture from Ilsa silenced him. He followed her gaze through the crowded station to where two nondescript men stood talking. With them was Heidi.

  “Quickly,” Ilsa whispered.

  Adolf barely had time to follow her as she melted into a shadowy alcove where heavy equipment stood.

  “What is it?” asked Adolf.

  “Those men with Heidi. They are Gestapo.”

  “What?” Adolf peered around the corner, trying to see. The men certainly could have been Gestapo. Anyone could be. That was what made them so frightening. But why would they be talking to Heidi? “Do you think she’s in trouble?”

  “No,” said Ilsa. “I think we are.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Adolf felt a curious sensation of duality; of the world suddenly turning upside down, only to be righted again, simply because it had to. He was in Berlin’s beautiful old train station, on his way to see his family for a last visit before graduating the Reich’s finest university. Then in six weeks, he would receive his diploma, begin a promising career in government, and maybe, finally make his father proud.

  But right now, to look into to Ilsa’s white and terrified face, was to realize that life as he knew it had just ended. So he tried not to look in her face. He tried to look at the mobs of people in the station, at least half of them students like himself. And at the men who Ilsa thought were Gestapo, but probably weren’t.

  Finally, he looked back at Ilsa. She was still staring at the men with Heidi, but he could see from her expression she was thinking frantically.

  “Why do you think they’re Gestapo?” he asked.

  “I recognize one. We have had—dealings--in the past. But it’s the other one I’m worried about. See that badge on his hat?” Adolf could see some kind of ornamentation on the younger man’s expensive leather hat, but had no idea what it was. “It’s an award given very rarely, to members of one of the most secret enclaves in the Gestapo.”

  “For what?” Adolf asked, his mouth dry.

  “The Cleansing of Internal Enemies of the Reich.”

  Then the man put his arm around Heidi. She laughed at something he said, and looked into his eyes with an expression that could be read as adoration even from where Adolf and Ilsa stood.

  “We are dead,” Ilsa said, very softly.

  “Don’t jump to conclusions,” Adolf said, wishing his voice didn’t shake so much. “Heidi probably doesn’t even know--”

  Then he saw Franz and Peter, with his arm around Brigitta, enter the station. It was only chance that he happened to glance back at Heidi the very next moment. And because he did so, he saw her stiffen. He saw her pull away from her lover. And he saw her raise one beautiful white hand, and point to three of the people Adolf loved most in the world.

  A moment later, the older Gestapo agent intercepted them. Three uniformed men moved in from out of nowhere. Adolf saw the disbelief, then terror on his friends faces as they were led outside with a minimum of noise and fuss. The few people who glanced their way, hurried away from them, and to their trains.

  Then Franz, Peter and Brigitta were gone. Adolf knew he would never see them again in this life.

  But is wasn’t over. Heidi and the other agent remained where they were, and Adolf realized she was going to identify every member of the Judenmuseum group who came to the station--which was more than half of them. The others would doubtless be rounded up on campus, or in their family homes, if they had made it that far.

  This cannot be happening! screamed a voice in his head.

  “Over here,” whispered Ilsa, and he saw she had squeezed between a broken ladder and a piece of twisted paneling, where a door stood locked. A window, thickly coated with dust, was set high in the door.

  Adolf didn’t even wonder as he wrapped his jacket around his fist and broke the window. He didn’t hear a sound as the glass shattered, but he was sure he could hear the sound of pursuit behind them, over the pounding of blood in his eardrums.

  The door led to a small storage room, which in turn led through a door and into an alley. It was filthy, but unguarded, and it got them out of the train station. Adolf followed Ilsa, who led the way with grim confidence. He moved as one in a nightmare, all the while, trying to find some way to explain everything; a way to see it so that everything could go back to being the way it was this morning.

  A few hours later, Adolf and Ilsa sat in relative safety in what had once been part of Berlin’s old sewer system. They had risked a quick stop at the boarding house where Ilsa lived, gambling that it would be low on the lists of places searched. They had won that throw of the dice, and emerged safely with a few supplies; mostly books, clothing, and the money that Ilsa had put aside.

  She had nothing for Adolf to change into, so here he sat, in his holiday best, in a service alcove off an ancient tunnel, populated by rats. Adolf couldn’t tell if it was cold or not, because he had been shivering since they left the station. He guessed they were directly beneath the warehouse district, about five miles from campus. Five miles and a lifetime.

  These tunnels, it seemed, led everywhere, including into the new sewer system, which would have been a much less comfortable way to travel. Here, at least, it was dry and relatively clean, and it didn’t smell any worse than the neighborhood above it.

  Which was bad enough, thought Adolf.

  But now, finally, there was time. Time to sort out what had happened. If Adolf was never going to see his family again, never draw a breath without looking over his shoulder, he at least had to know why.

  “Was Heidi a spy all along, you think?” he asked.

  “Probably. It’s so arbitrary, we sometimes forget about it. But generally, anytime more than three people gather together on a regular basis, someone in the Party sends an agent.”

  Adolf nodded. He knew that. Everyone did. But the Judenmuseum? It was so...unimportant. A homely
little building lacking even the funds for a new paint job. Filled with books and pictures that no longer meant anything to anyone. “So what happened? A handful of students, playing around with a forgotten religion? It shouldn’t have mattered to the Reich, anymore than kids playing with tarot cards and Ouija boards.”

  “But the numbers were growing. Over fifty in Berlin. I can’t be sure, since so many of them wouldn’t talk to me, or else I was suspicious of them, but--I think people have found their way to the Judenmuseums in every city that has one. And possibly elsewhere. Mostly students, but others as well. I’d guess our numbers were in the hundreds. Maybe higher.”

  For a moment, Adolf forgot about the danger he was in, and thought with awe--and even a little pride--about what that meant. “The Jews,” he whispered. “Someone, somewhere, must have thought they’d returned. And been afraid.”

  “Were they right?” asked Ilsa. “Have the Jews returned?”

  “I wish I could think clearly enough to give a straight answer.” Adolf thought back across the years, trying to find the moment that it had become more than a game to him. That first Hanukkah? The day he began translating the Christian bibles to find their roots in Judaism? The first time he questioned the righteousness of a government that did so many things that were wrong? “I suppose, in the sense that so many people are about to die for the faith described in Torah, we are Jews.”

  He had meant it as a joke, but Ilsa grabbed his hand, and gripped it with painful force. “Then maybe there is hope.”

  “What?”

  “If it’s worth dying for, do you think it’s worth living for?”

  “Maybe for you Ilsa. You’ve always been stronger than me. But for me...” He trailed off, afraid of where the thought led. “For all that I’ve found in the Judenmuseum, with you, with the heroes of old, I find that I’m still trying to die like a good Nazi. It’s really all that’s left to me.”

  “You’ve always been one to underestimate yourself, Adolf. But I guess that’s a trademark of everyone who found their way to the museums. Krista, Frederic, Klaus--even Franz, who was certainly the most ‘normal’ of the bunch. Gifted, intelligent--but always tripping yourselves up.”