From the Ashes

by Sandra Saidak

  “That’s a real comfort now,” said Adolf, closing his eyes, and leaning back against the rough stone of the tunnel wall.

  “It should be!” Ilsa was angry now, and somehow, that was more daunting than the specter of death. “Look, I’m sorry about Franz and the others! Especially those poor kids like Brigitta, who were still just playing! But we’re alive, Adolf! We’ve got to make that count for something!”

  “Like what? Running and hiding until they find us? Dying as traitors?” Suddenly Adolf was angry too, and it felt so much better than being afraid. “My family is ruined because of me! My old friends, my teachers! Everyone! They’re going to be interrogated; probed for the answer to what made me go bad! If I were a nobody, a younger son of an intelligent technician, sent off to University, it might not matter!

  “But I am the grandson of Paul Joseph Goebbels! The son of one of the Party’s inner circle. They can’t afford to let me escape! They’ll find me no matter who they have to kill to get to me!”

  And suddenly, the reality of that statement struck, and he collapsed against Ilsa, sobbing and shaking, his stomach heaving. Ilsa held him, and for all her icy demeanor, her cheeks were as wet as his own.

  Then, his sobs changed to hysterical laughter.

  Ilsa slapped him.

  “How dramatic!” gasped Adolf. “I knew you’d seen too many movies.

  “But what I was laughing about,” Adolf’s breath turned into a harsh wheezing and he stopped. He took a few deep breaths and tried again. “What I was laughing about was that for all that I loved Judaism, I never really hated Nazism! I mean, I hated the injustice and the paranoia, and the waste, but I never really wanted to overthrow it! I hoped I could take what I learned from the Jews and make things better. Less unfair, less cruel, but never really less National Socialist! In my heart, I never, truly, turned against the Reich.”

  “Well,” said Ilsa thoughtfully. “Don’t you think it’s about time you did?”

  In the near total darkness of the abandoned sewer tunnel, Adolf’s eyes sought Ilsa’s. The passionate glow he found only confirmed what he already knew: she was serious.

  “Listen to me,” she continued. “Our friends are going to die, but not all of them. If we’ve escaped, then so have others. And yes, a lot of innocent people, including your family, are going to suffer--but that isn’t your fault, Adolf!”

  “Then whose fault is it?”

  “If I had a hundred years, I couldn’t name them all, or explain what each one did to bring this about. For me, it’s enough to say that this system of running the world is just plain evil! And maybe, just maybe, it’s been evil since its accursed inception, and maybe it’s time somebody did something about it!” She was shouting now, her words echoing eerily in the endless tunnel.

  “What do you suggest?” asked Adolf.

  Ilsa’s voice dropped back to her usual unearthly calm. “Personally, I plan to devote every moment I have left to overthrowing the current world order.” She sighed. “Face it, Adolf, it’s falling apart anyway. I’ll help, just like thousands of others who’ve lost everything, or simply can’t get used to living under a yoke. And one day, soon, the Thousand Year Reich will fall. And I’d be there to cheer, except that whatever replaces it will probably be just as bad.”

  “Wow. You even know how to make martyrdom suck.”

  Then his head exploded in pain, and he yelped and realized that Ilsa had just hit him with a copy of Torah.

  “Maybe if we had something worth replacing it with; some leaders worth following, martyrdom wouldn’t suck so much!”

  Adolf stared at her, daring her to continue, while swearing to himself that if Ilsa named him the next world savior he would run screaming from the tunnel. But she only wrapped her arms around her body, shivered a little and lowered her head. Calm again, she raised her eyes to Adolf’s. “Sorry. I got carried away. I guess we should be concentrating on getting out of here.”

  “On that subject, at least, I’m open to suggestions.”

  “Believe it or not, we do have friends, Adolf.” She dug into her jacket pocket, and pulled out a scrap of paper. From one of the bags they had gotten from her place, she took a flashlight. In its weak light, Adolf saw three names. The first was followed by a Berlin address; the other two were in distant cities. “Some contacts I have reason to believe the authorities don’t know about. Memorize each address, then destroy the paper.”

  “Ilsa! Look at me! Do I look like some kind of comic book hero to you? I’m ready to throw up! You might know all there is to know about how to disappear and live in the shadows but I don’t! I’d get myself killed, along with anyone who tried to help me.” He stuffed the paper down the front of her dress. “Find yourself another hero. Or better yet, use these contacts yourself.”

  “I’ve already got a place to hide,” she said, extracting the paper, and pushing it firmly into his vest pocket. “Live or die, it’s up to you Adolf. But if you die, I’ll never forgive you!”

  Adolf rubbed his throbbing head. “I don’t want to die, either. I just don’t know how to live anymore.”

  “I’ll help you. So will others. Judaism isn’t the only underground. There are places we can hide, and maybe, someday, come back. With a vengeance.”

  “And do what?”

  “Build a new world. Find out firsthand what freedom and justice and equality really are. Get married.” She smiled. “You did ask me to marry you, remember? In a better world we could. And if you turn me down now, I can sue you for breach of promise.”

  Adolf suddenly saw an image of Ilsa hauling him before a Bet Din, the religious courts of the ancient Jews, and burst out laughing. “Now that might be something worth living for,” he said. He began to think about living again. His chances were pretty bad, but if he managed to, there were some things to look forward to. “We’d be social equals, at last,” he said.

  “I could live with that,” said Ilsa. “As long as you don’t start thinking we’re intellectual equals.”

  “Never,” said Adolf. “So, what about it? Will you marry me?” This was the second time today he had proposed to her in a less than ideal setting.

  Ilsa’s blue eyes were solemn. “Yes, Adolf, I will.” Then she smiled again. “I can’t think of a better incentive to get through all this alive.”

  Adolf shook his head. “No. Not when it’s all over. Will you marry me now? Here?” From the last finger of his right hand, Adolf pulled a battered gold ring, inscribed with words whose meaning and origin he had never learned. An ancient ruby sparkled in the flashlight’s beam.

  “According to at least one source I’ve read, one way Jews could be married was for the man to give the woman a token worth more than ten zloty—I think that was a Polish coin—and for her to accept it. This ring has been in my family for over two hundred years. Will you take it as a bride gift?”

  Without a word, Ilsa took the ring, and slid it onto the fourth finger of her left hand.

  He kissed her then, and for a moment forgot all about where they were and what had happened. Perhaps it was their shared danger, or perhaps it was their new found equality, but this time, Ilsa stayed in her body while they kissed. And she stayed while Adolf unbuttoned the dress he had bought her, and while he caressed her soft breasts.

  By the time Ilsa began tearing Adolf’s clothes from his body, he stopped thinking altogether, and just enjoyed her ferocious attention.

  Had he ever really used words like “cold”, “distant” or “detached” to describe the woman he now held in his arms? Writhing beneath him, wrapping herself around him, she seemed to be made of fire. Adolf felt himself consumed, as if he too burned; as if they would consume each other.

  Afterwards, as they lay in each other’s arms, Adolf said, “We’re not going to be leaving together, are we?”

  Ilsa shook her head. “It would be too dangerous. But we will be together again, Adolf. I believed it before, but I’m sure of it now.”

  Adolf smiled. “Divi
ne inspiration?”

  “Something like that.” Ilsa sat up, and began getting dressed.

  “Well,” said Adolf, extricating his clothes from the tangled heap beside them, “I’d call what just happened divine, but I don’t think the God of the Hebrews was personally involved.”

  “No?”

  “Not His style.”

  “Sure it is,” said Ilsa. “Remember Moses? All that stuff about his long life, still enjoying his juices up ‘till the end?”

  “True. Sounds kind of one sided, though. It never said if his partners enjoyed them too.”

  “That’s what happens when men write the history.” Ilsa shone the flashlight over herself, then Adolf. “Damn! We could have gotten more money for these clothes if we hadn’t just messed them up so much.”

  Adolf sighed. “I knew your practical side would resurface eventually.”

  “Until now, no one’s been able to disconnect it even temporarily.”

  “I’m flattered.” Letting go of the magic with a final sigh, he straightened and asked, “So, now what?”

  “Now, we follow this tunnel about a half mile to an access point on the street above.” Ilsa peered at her watch. “It’s eight o’clock. That means it’s dark. I’ll go up first, and make my way to a contact I know. You wait until midnight, and then get to the first address on that list I gave you.” Adolf dug it out of his pocket. “You’ll talk to a man named Hans. Give him your clothes, that platinum pin you have, the silver cuff links--everything you got. He’ll swap them for some cheap, working class clothes and a fake ID. It won’t be top of the line, but it’ll get you out of Berlin.”

  Adolf studied Ilsa’s map of the city--both above and below ground. “I’ll have to walk at least two miles above ground to get there! How am I supposed to do that, dressed like this, with half the Reich looking for me?”

  “That’s why I’m asking you to wait until midnight. I’ll create a distraction.”

  “And assuming I make it to this dealer? How do you know he he’ll settle for my possessions? He could collect more money turning me in.”

  “This man has reasons to avoid the authorities, no matter how much they’re offering for information about you.”

  They stood and embraced, then walked to their exit point in silence. Adolf spent the entire time wondering if he would ever see her again. Just before they climbed the ladder that had been worked into the brick pillar, she turned and kissed him. “Good journey, Adolf. Until we meet again.” Then she was gone.

  Adolf settled down in the darkness to wait.

  At the stroke of midnight, Adolf emerged from the tunnel.

  He was in a narrow street in the warehouse district, standing beneath a crumbling, deserted building. He had memorized his route, but even as looked around, he saw at least two guards between him and the street he needed to get to.

  Suddenly, the sound of breaking glass shattered the night. Something came tumbling off the roof of the building across the street, stopping about ten feet off the ground.

  It was a body, hanging from some kind of rope or cord. Guards began yelling, people boiled forth, and Adolf knew he had only a matter of seconds to take advantage of Ilsa’s “distraction.”

  But he wasted some of that time just staring at the body that swung through the night before him.

  It was Heidi. Her throat and belly had been slit open. It was, Adolf thought, remembering his childhood visits to the country, the way one slaughtered and dressed a swine.

  CHAPTER 11

  Adolf paused at the muddy track that led to the dilapidated farmhouse. He tried to summon a smile at what his mother’s reaction would be to the prospect of spending the night in such a place. Then he gave up: he was simply too tired.

  In the three days since fleeing Berlin, Adolf had slept approximately four hours. He had eaten well enough: sausage from a vendor on the road; bread from a baker in the village just past, apples from a man who had probably stolen them from some farmer’s tree. Ilsa’s money had seen to that, at least.

  And, thanks to the I.D. that Hans had provided, and a few cosmetic changes in his appearance, Adolf was still a free man.

  “Free to live like a hunted animal for a few more days,” he muttered.

  The dye that made his hair as dark as Krista’s also made his scalp itch. The short--almost shaven--style was hard to get used to as well. His eyeglasses had a cracked lens, which was helpful for getting people to dismiss him without a second glance, but they were also giving him a headache.

  Adolf reached the front door, and cast his gaze around the yard, deserted but for a few scrawny chickens. Just as he was about to knock, the door creaked open a few inches. A red haired young man about his own age peered out from behind the door.

  “Stefan?” asked Adolf.

  “Who wants to know?”

  “Adolf.” He smiled disarmingly, and then added, “I need a place to stay for a few days. I can offer my services as a farmhand, and maybe trade some old books and curios.” He held up the battered valise he carried. “Ilsa told me you might be interested.”

  Stefan’s expression slowly changed from suspicious to hopeful. “Ilsa? From the Berlin museum?” he asked.

  Adolf’s gut twisted as he answered, wondering if he would ever see her again. Or his family. Or Munich. Or anyplace that showed on a map. “I had to leave there in rather a hurry. And I’d prefer not to stand out in plain sight for long. If you don’t let me in, I’ll understand. I’m in serious trouble.”

  “So who isn’t?” Stefan swung open the door and ushered Adolf inside.

  The inside of the farmhouse wasn’t much better than the outside. A once elegant sofa sagged against one wall. A pile of dirty laundry sat in a corner. By an open sewing box on a rusted metal coffee table, a stack of clothes waited to be mended. A large fireplace dominated the end of the main room. Adolf guessed it provided the house’s only source of heat. He hoped he would not be spending the winter here.

  The mantle above the fireplace was crowded with photographs. Some sat in little gold frames, but most just leaned against the wall, faded edges showing where frames had once been.

  “As you’ve probably guessed,” Stefan said, “we don’t get many visitors.”

  Adolf shook his head, trying to stay awake. “I gather that things used to be better for you, but Ilsa didn’t tell me anything specific.”

  Stefan took Adolf’s suitcase and knapsack and led him to the kitchen. “I’ll tell you all about it. My sister and I, we never pass up a chance for conversation. We get it so rarely, and we get tired of each other. Sit down; you look like you could use a meal.”

  Adolf chose a padded folding chair from the three mismatched chairs that surrounded the long wooden table. Stefan brought him a piece of brown bread and a hunk of yellow cheese, and then dipped a glass of water from a bucket that sat beside a pump by the kitchen door.

  “Thank you,” said Adolf, wishing for more, but saying nothing. He ate slowly. The bread was coarse and hard, but the cheese was soft and buttery. “So what happened to you, Stefan? And why are you risking even worse fortune by helping me?”

  Stefan laughed. “Things couldn’t get much...but, no. We never say that, do we? My father was a businessman and a landowner; what they used to call a burgher. We were doing well enough that between his connections and my brains, I got a University scholarship. That’s why you and I are talking to each other today: I got into studying the Jews, and running with the local museum crowd.

  “Then, three years ago, my father was arrested.”

  Adolf winced. “What for?”

  Stefan shrugged. “They never said; just took him away and asked everyone a lot of questions. But that was enough to ruin us. They confiscated everything worth having, and of course, all of our neighbors suddenly realized they’d never actually met us.”

  “How do you still own the farm?” asked Adolf.

  “We don’t. We’re allowed to stay here and work it, as long as we keep up our quo
ta. And, technically, we’re being allowed to ‘buy it back.’ That means, we sell everything we can to make payments that will never get us back the land. Unless of course, the next Führer decides my father is innocent of whatever his supposed crime is, and pardons him. One can but hope.”

  “This cheese is very good,” said Adolf, not knowing what else he could say just then.

  Stefan brightened. “Thank you. Anna makes it. She’s a great cook, but the dairy is her pride and joy.”

  As if on cue, a young woman, red haired like Stefan, came running into the kitchen. She was out of breath, her face so red that her freckles were barely visible. “Mother’s gone off again!” she said, wiping her hands on a stained and faded blue gingham skirt.

  “What now?” Stefan demanded. At that moment, a naked, middle-aged woman went running past the kitchen window. She was shrieking something that sounded like the Edicts for Party Women, interlaced with obscenities. The three young people watched as the woman collided with a clothesline full of linens, and proceeded to thoroughly entangle herself.

  Stefan sighed. “Come on, Anna, let’s go.”

  But Anna made no move to follow. “There’s a man in my kitchen,” she said, staring at Adolf with wide eyes.

  “Oh, yes. Adolf, this is my sister, Anna. She and mother and I are all that’s left of the family, which should explain why we’re so happy to have you here. Anna, this is Adolf, a fugitive of some kind, who we’ll be helping for a few days.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” said Anna, still staring, while Adolf took her hand.

  “Charmed,” said Adolf, pressing her hand to his lips.

  “Come on, Anna,” said Stefan.

  Then Adolf was alone in the kitchen. He went to the bucket and refilled his glass, then sat down trying to drink until his stomach was full. Next he tried to think of something useful to do...