Page 10 of Beehive
Artillery blasted something down the street, shaking the building on which I leaned, fraying the last of my nerves.
Abandoning my hiding place, I crept down the alley, crossed another street, slipped past yet another Soviet team, and ran along the storefronts. When the street ended, I stood on one end of a cobbled plaza, another frozen fountain holding court at its center. Gilded doors adorned with the Star of David etched deeply in their wood caught my eye.
My heart lurched.
Sudden relief warred with anger and guilt. No Nazi should look uponthatstar and crave its embrace. We detested the thing and all it represented.
And yet, in that moment, it did not represent a god or a people. It held no beliefs or tenets of faith. It held only safety from bullets and shells—and that was enough.
Sucking in a deep, frigid breath, I bolted across the plaza and slammed into the doors, throwing one wide as my shoulder struck, then quickly banging it shut behind me.
My back pressed against wood. My chest heaved.
I’d made too much noise.
Theyhadto have heard me.
My eyes darted about, wondering at the pews and their orderly rows, an odd contradiction to the disarray of the outside world.
“How has this place survived?” I thought aloud. “We should have burned it to the ground already.”
There was no time for questions or recriminations.
I raised my rifle and scanned the chamber.
Nothing stirred.
One step. Then another.
Before I knew it, I’d spanned the building’s length to stand at the front of the hall. An elegant yet simple banister carved with vines and leaves parted for a set of four stairs that led to the upper level. Against the wall, climbing nearly to the twenty-foot roof, rose a beautifully formed arch supported by double pillars on either side. It bore etchings of stone tablets. At the crown,another Star of David shimmered, its golden inlay catching on slivers of light that streamed through dingy windows. Intricate needlepoint covered ancient chairs whose backs rose far above anyone who might sit in them, and crimson curtains were held back by golden cords with neat tassels.
The whole thing reminded me of a playhouse.
My fingers trailed along the vines of the handrail.
None of the symbols or embroidery held meaning for me. I felt no stirring of my spirit.
Jews were the enemy of the Reich. They were impure.
The Führer said it, so it was true.
What was it about their beliefs that gave them such strength, such will to survive in the face of the overwhelming might of the German state? Surely, they knew we could not allow their poison to spread.
I should have turned, fled from the place, ignored its trappings and gilding, shunned its tapestries and welcoming embrace. Why did I linger? What held me there?
I was curious. It was that simple.
One step became two, then four.
Before I could think, I stood with my back to the altar, staring at the needlepoint that hung from the inner arch of the wooden backdrop. Another pair of stone tablets stared back, these with squiggles I was sure meant something to others but were lost on me. A pair of laurel leaves reminiscent of those one might find in an offering of peace floated across the sheer fabric below the tablets.
I ran a finger over the thread. The craftmanship was stunning and appeared many decades old, possibly older.
The veil fluttered at a sharp breeze from a nearby window whose panes had been shot out. It was quick, only shifting slightly, but was enough for me to glimpse something curious. I reached up and pushed the fabric aside.
Sitting atop a single pillar was a work of art unlike anything I had ever seen.
About a foot tall, the statue was carved from rich, dark wood and depicted an old man—a rabbi, no doubt—sitting solemnly with an open book in his lap. His face was etched with intricate detail, deep emotions that wafted from the wood like tendrils of the man’s age and experience. A long beard, deep-set eyes that seemed lost in contemplation, and furrowed brows gave him a look of immense wisdom and gravity. The man’s heavy cloak draped over his shoulders was edged with delicate, ancient symbols, carved with meticulous care. Even the folds had been rendered with such lifelike precision they might shift in a breeze.
