Saving Amelie (44 page)

“But why? He’s not militant, is he?”

“Because he’s teaching allegiance to Christ, and because by challenging people to live as Jesus lived, he’s challenging them to think beyond blindly following the dictates of the Reich.”

“Is that what you’re doing in helping the curate, by helping Jews and forging papers?”

He nodded. “Giving targets lower on the Nazi radar a way out of Germany wherever we can. But it’s getting harder.”

“That’s about the most dangerous thing you could be doing, short of raising a coup to assassinate Hitler. I’d have thought reporting real news was risk enough—even for you, Mr. Scoop.”

“Guess I don’t feel much like ‘Mr. Scoop’ these days.” He studied her long enough to make her squirm. “I’ve met someone.”

She sat back, sure she’d been punched in the stomach.

“I mean, I’ve met someone who’s shown me things about myself that I didn’t know before—things about life, the world.”

“Blonde? Blue-eyed? Aryan, long legs?” Rachel couldn’t keep the blister from her voice.

A grin crept up one side of his face. “You sound jealous. It’s not like that.” He leaned forward and took her hands in his. “What do you know about Jesus Christ?”

Rachel pulled away. “So now you’ve decided to become a priest. Where’s the real Jason Young and what have you done with him?”

“I’ve changed—in ways I never imagined.”

“You weren’t so bad the way you were,” she joked self-consciously. “I’m not sure I want you to change.”

“Too late.” Jason’s eyes probed hers. “Did you read the book I sent?”

“
Nachfolge
? I started it, but—”

“Dietrich wrote it. Read it—in light of what you know about the eugenics movement here and at home, what you know about experimenting on and euthanizing people, all you know about Hitler and his Nazis and this war.”

Rachel sighed. “It’s not exactly a gripping English novel.”

“Better than. It will change the way you think.”

“My father will turn over in his grave. I’m sitting in the middle of the Passion Village teaching church plays.” She shook her head, knowing she’d read the book anyway. “He always said that Christianity is a crutch—”

“For the weak,” Jason finished. “That’s pretty much what the Nazis say. Only now they’re trying to replace Jesus with Hitler as the savior of the people. Hitler’s got it all bound up with pagan rites and blood and soil and nationalism. Sick stuff.”

“I hear parents of the children in my class, when they stop in to pick up their kids. Calling themselves the ‘people of the Passion’ and saying how the Passion rules their lives. And then I hear through Lea how this one or that one turned informer on their neighbor or even their relatives—for privileges, money, rations, or just brownnosing the Nazis. I see kids who’ve copied the adults they hear—yelling that Jews are Christ killers and that the Jews deserve what they get. Their brand of Christianity certainly doesn’t seem to make any difference in how they treat each other or how they talk about Jews.”

“I see it too. They don’t realize how Hitler’s changed the culture, changed their thinking, that he’s doing just what he said he’d do in
Mein Kampf
.” Jason kneaded the back of his neck. “He’s eliminating the weak and poor, people Christ died for. He’s determined to wipe out the Jews, the very people God chose to reach the world through. The ones He entrusted with His Word. They’re cutting off the arm of Christ and they don’t see it.”

“No, they don’t,” Rachel confessed, uncertain what she thought.

“Most don’t know or care what will happen to those they relocate outside Germany.”

“It’s not their problem—they don’t see it as their problem.”

“It’s only beginning,” Jason warned. “I have a feeling we’ve seen nothing yet.”

50

J
ASON
SAT
IN
THE
NEWSROOM
,
reading the latest—Germany’s invasion of Norway and Denmark, proclaiming it their duty to protect the “freedom and independence” of those countries from the Allies. Hitler warned that “all resistance would be broken by every available means by the German armed forces and would therefore only lead to utterly useless bloodshed.”

Jason shoved his fedora onto his head and pushed into the cold spring morning. He doubted very much that the flabbergasted Norwegians or Danes saw Hitler’s invasion in such a magnanimous light, let alone the correspondents who were driven from their beds at dawn only to be locked up in the Kaiserhof while their countries were “protected.”

The Swedes were too scared to aid their Scandinavian kinsmen—a decision Jason felt certain they’d rue. But later, over the BBC, Jason heard Winston Churchill vow from the House of Commons that Hitler had “committed a grave strategical error” and that the British navy would now take the Norwegian coast and sink all ships in the Skagerrak and the Kattegat. Jason prayed the British would make good their threat. If they didn’t, what—or who—would stop Hitler from systematically taking over the world?

But just before Passover, British and Norwegian troops were driven from Lillehammer, and Hitler celebrated once more.

Nearly a month had passed since Easter. Rachel knew that Curate Bauer had scrounged and bartered to provide all he could for the
Passover feast for Jews in hiding—those who embraced Jesus as their Messiah as well as those who did not.

Once the blackout curtains were drawn, Rachel, Oma, and Rivka carried to the attic napkins and plates, bowls and candles, food and wine needed for the seder. Lea helped Friederich hobble up the attic stairs. The girls spread their pallets and pillows across the floor in a circle, wide-eyed Amelie delighted with the impromptu picnic and eager to help. Rivka placed two candles in the center.

“There’s no lamb and no egg, but we have horseradish root and unleavened bread. Thanks to Curate Bauer, we have wine.” Oma held up the decanter.

“Is it enough?” Rachel asked Rivka, seeing the girl’s sad face.

“It’s wonderful.” Rivka choked back tears. “It’s just . . .”

“The first Passover without your parents?” Oma asked.

Rivka nodded, unable to hold her tears at bay. Oma’s hands were full, and Rivka desperately needed a shoulder. Rachel pulled the girl into an awkward embrace, letting her cry. Amelie patted Rivka’s leg, and Rachel stroked the little girl’s hair in return.

Rachel didn’t understand how people, especially those who claimed to be Christian and to follow the Jesus Bonhoeffer wrote about, could stand by and watch as their neighbors were stolen away in the night.

Curate Bauer had shaken his head when Rachel had asked him to explain. “Is there an explanation for blindness, for hatred? For sin? I don’t know the answer. I only know the remedy is Christ’s great love as we’ve been shown in His Passion.”

Rachel thought about that as she held Rivka—Rivka, who’d lost her family at the hands of a madman and a world gone mad.

Rivka pulled from Rachel and wiped her eyes. Rachel drew Amelie to her side as the entire makeshift family settled onto the pillows and pallets, gathering round the small seder plate Rivka had placed on the floor. She set three matzohs on the plate, covering them with the
large white linen napkin Oma had provided. Then she looked up at the family, her eyes still glistening. “There was no time for the bread to rise before we fled Egypt, so we baked it unleavened.”

She arranged the horseradish from Oma’s garden and a bunch of watercress Friederich had found in a mountain spring. “Our slavery was bitter—as bitter as these herbs. We’re missing the shank bone, showing the lamb’s blood that marked our houses—our lintels and doorposts.”

“Jesus is our Passover Lamb,” Friederich whispered. “He knows our hearts, and He covers us with His blood.”

Rivka blanched at the notion but continued. “My mother used to let me mix the nuts and cinnamon, the apples chopped with a little wine.” She swallowed. “We’re missing that tonight too, but it represents the mortar used when my people labored so hard to make bricks in Egypt.”

She picked up a little bowl of salt water. “And these are our tears, for we were slaves.”

She touched the four small wine goblets Friederich had filled. “These are for the promises Adonai made to us, of all He would do and be to us.”

Rivka sat back, breathed deeply, then lit the two candles, drawing their flames toward her. Rachel thought she might be praying or remembering seders past, but she looked up and reverently began, “
Barukh atah Adonai Eloheynu Melekh ha’olam asher kidshanu bidevaro uvishmo anakhnu madlikim haneyrot shel yom tov.
. . . Blessed are You, O Lord our God, Ruler of the universe, who has set us apart by His Word, and in whose Name we light the festival lights.”

Each of the foods caught in Rachel’s throat as she listened, transfixed, to Rivka.
I’ve lived my whole life and not known such things existed.
She looked at the faces of her family in the circle: Oma, Lea, Friederich, and little Amelie, whose trusting eyes danced in the candlelight. They weren’t Jewish, but the little service held something
sacred for them—she saw it in their faces, in their unshed tears.
What did Friederich mean about Jesus being our Passover Lamb? And Rivka—she’s Jewish. How can she share this ceremony with Christians after Gentiles arrested and may have murdered her family? What is this connection she holds with my family that I don’t have?

When the seder ended and the candles burned low, Rachel heard Rivka whisper beneath her breath, “Next year . . .”

“Next year?” Rachel asked, reaching for Rivka’s hand.

Rivka, tears streaming, gripped Rachel’s in return. “Next year in Jerusalem!”

That night, as the others prepared for bed, Rachel tucked Amelie beneath her covers. The little girl fell fast asleep with her thumb tucked into her mouth. Only then did Rachel turn to Rivka. “I don’t understand about this Passover. How is it connected to Jesus?”

“There is no connection to the Christian Jesus—it’s about our flight from Egypt and Adonai’s protection over us. The night the firstborn—”

“I get that; I do. But what did Friederich mean about Jesus being our Passover Lamb? About His blood covering us?”

Rivka sighed. “My brother believed that too.”

“Your brother? You mean—”

“My brother believed that Jesus was Messiah, and not only that, but that He was the Son of God, that He was the atonement for our sins—for the sins of all the world.”

“A Hebrew Christian?”

Rivka nodded. “A fat lot of good that did him with the Nazis. ‘Once a Jew, always a Jew,’ they said.” She snorted. “The ‘chosen people.’ Chosen for persecution! I say, choose somebody else!”

“But your parents—”

“Orthodox.”

“Did they know your brother—?”

“The night he told us of his conversion . . . it was Shabbat, two months after my bat mitzvah. We lit the candles—the silver candlesticks my mother said would one day be mine. The ones those pigs stole.” Rivka stopped. Rachel looked away as Rivka swiped her tears. Minutes passed. “My brother said the prayers. We were eating.” Rivka looked in some far-off place, remembering. “My brother told us he was helping our people get out of Germany, that he could get us all passports. He’d learned to forge them—he showed me how it was done. He urged my parents to go, but they would not hear of it. They thought it could not be so bad, that the persecutions would stop.

“When he saw he wasn’t getting anywhere, he told us something more astounding. At first, we didn’t understand. He talked about his Gentile friends and their
Kirche
—how he’d gone with them once, on a dare. My father looked like thunder, and my mother kept trying to change the subject.

“But Jacob said he’d learned things he never knew before, and that he’d come to see that this Jesus, this Yeshua, was truly Messiah. He tried to convince my parents to go to the
Kirche
with him, to listen to the pastor’s words. Before he could say more, my father howled and tore his shirt. He ordered Jacob from the house, from the family, then turned his back until the door latched behind him. My mother wailed, like the mourners. The rabbi came the next day, after Shabbat, and we sat shivah for Jacob. After that, my parents would not allow his name to be spoken.”