We must always keep in mind what the Jew wants today, and what he plans to do with us. If we do not oppose the Jews with the entire energy of our people, we are lost. But if we can use the full force of our soul that has been released by the National Socialist revolution, we need not fear the future. The devilish hatred of the Jews plunged the world into war, poverty, and misery. Our holy hate will bring us victory and save all of mankind.
—Ernst Hiemer, Der Stürmer, 1943
Ida sighed wearily as she was dragged from the coal cellar by soldiers again. She’d been in there for at least two days now, but possibly more. She’d been questioned once upon her return from her flat, but they’d gotten bored with her lack of responses and sent her back to the cellar.
Jenny and Amelie had gone now, taken out by soldiers and not returned. Julia didn’t speak anymore, and Maria just wept for her pain and for her baby. Ida didn’t bother talking at all, finding no relief or purpose in it. Until it was decided what would be done with her, she just viewed the time in the cellar as an opportunity to declutter her mind and take whatever rest she could.
Not that life was comfortable in a dark and cramped coal cellar, but they’d let her bring her bag of belongings in with her, so she had a makeshift pillow. She had slept in more uncomfortable places recently, like benches in well-lit train stations, in the course of her work. Having almost complete darkness for sleep was a relief.
Now, of course, she was probably due for more questioning.
Maybe now they would decide what to do with her and get her settled in one place or another. She would love to be able to adjust to a new way of life rather than being kept in this state of irregular and intermittent existence.
She was taken up the stairs again, her feet working perfectly well, though she was being pulled along as though she was unconscious. Then, to her surprise, she was taken up another flight of stairs, the hallway and rooms much brighter and filled with more light than the ground floor had been.
They turned roughly two doors down, the room wide and comfortable, containing large bay windows and an ornate desk to one side. No one else was within at the moment, but Ida was made to sit in a chair in the center of the room before the soldiers who stood behind her.
Then they waited.
How long wasn’t clear; Ida could not have even said what day it was. But she looked at her hands, wincing at the filthy state of them. She began to pick at the dirt and grit beneath her fingernails while she waited, treating the experience almost like an interview for a job she didn’t really want.
Would Fat Jacques be present for this particular interview? Or would it be the Gestapo alone? Would they bring in the SS or leave it to the plain clothes? Or would she just sit here and enjoy some light for a change?
That would have been an interesting form of torture. Bringing captives out into the sunlight for short intervals. Showing them what clean spaciousness was available. Allowing them to sit without risk of splinters or soiling of coal dust. And then returning them to complete, damp blackness.
How it would motivate anyone to do anything would likely depend on the mental state of the prisoners, but Ida was fine for now.
Steps in the hallway met her ears, and she continued to pick at her nails pointedly.
Two people entered, and Ida did not bother to look up as they did so.
Without any sort of preamble or introductions, one of them stepped forward and began barking at her in German.
The second person spoke soon after. “Who was the lady with you at the café?”
Ida picked at her nails, focusing on a particularly stubborn piece of coal.
More German.
“Why were you with her?” the translator asked, though it seemed to take him a long time to translate.
She flicked her eyes at him, and his eyes were fixed on her; he was not considering the German beside him at all. Was he trying to help her or was he simply slow at translation?
The German huffed. “Who is her husband?” the translator eventually asked.
Ida raised her brows and resumed picking at her nails.
“Just give us the names of the hidden children,” came the slow translation. “The true names. And addresses. If you do this, no harm will come to you. You will not have to leave Brussels.”
It was almost word for word what Jacques had said to her the night she was arrested, and it had not worked for him either, much to his irritation.
Ida let her eyes move to the German asking the questions, and just smiled.
He smiled back. “I want to help you,” he said, according to the translator. “I think it is wrong not to think of yourself in times like this. I can help you; I am one of the kind ones. If you will just give me the information, you won’t have to suffer anymore.”
It took an almost agonizingly long time for the translator to relay all of that, and Ida was growing more and more convinced of the intention of such a slow speed. She looked at him again, wondering if he had children himself. If he had sympathy for the children she had been helping and the cause she had been engaged in.
Was he Belgian? Was he sympathetic to Jews? Did he simply draw the line at children? Whatever it was, she was certain that he was trying to help, unlike the officer with his obviously false claims.
Yet this questioning was fairly innocent, all things considered. Was it an attempt at indicating worse things to come?
“Tell me something,” the German apparently said, losing the pretend kindness. “Anything.”
Ida shrugged a shoulder. “I have taken care of Jewish children pursued by the Gestapo. What could be more natural, since I am a social worker? I have hidden perhaps fourteen of them. And I am in touch with some priests and the like who get me the money necessary for their upkeep.”
It took a long time for the translator to relay this to the officer, and Ida found herself smiling at that. It might have seemed like a good chunk of information she had passed on then, but she knew it was nothing they did not already know once they considered it.
She was a social worker. She was hiding children. People in religious orders were helping.
All details they knew and had known.
And that was all she would confess to.
“We would like to know the names and addresses of the priests,” the German stated, via interpreter, folding his arms.
“I am sure you would,” Ida replied, folding her own arms to match him.
When she said nothing else, the German glared at her and said something else.
Ida looked at the translator for understanding.
“He demands the answers,” the interpreter said simply, his tone implying it was fairly obvious.
Ida gave a helpless gesture, then folded her arms once more.
“We will beat you for the answers if you do not give them to us.”
We? Who did he think was going to join him in that? Beating a woman, really?
“We will bind you. Restrict your food and drink. Forbid you sleep.”
Considering there had been zero intimidation tried by this man as of yet, his threats weren’t exactly striking the proper tone he might have wished. It felt more like a comedy than anything else, and had she thought it would help her case, Ida would have actually laughed.
Instead, she only gave him a tight smile.
He growled, irritation clear in any language, and stormed out of the room, the interpreter remaining behind.
Was that it? Ida scoffed to herself and sank back against her chair.
The interpreter cleared his throat, and she looked up at him.
His expression was full of warning.
A new officer came into the room then, and his expression was full of disgust at her.
Her smile faded ever so slightly.
He roared at her in furious German, the delay of the interpreter doing nothing to lessen the feelings involved. “Who is helping to hide the Jewish children?”
Ida swallowed but said nothing.
“Which religious frauds are assisting you?”
She looked down at her fingers and began picking at the nails once more, though her fingers shook a little more this time.
The officer came closer and shouted at her ear. “We will hunt down anyone you care about and send them to Breendonk. To the torture camps.”
Considering her brothers had left the country and her husband hadn’t seen her in years, there weren’t many people in that category at risk.
“Tell us what we want to know!” Flecks of spit hit Ida’s cheek while she listened to the translation.
She shook her head, only pretending to pick her nails now. She was shaking too much to do more. There was something about the fury directed her way that had that effect on her. Sent her quivering from head to toe and making her head swim. She wasn’t necessarily afraid, but she would never claim to be unmoved by the rage.
It wouldn’t make her give them the information they wanted, but it would make her look weaker.
More vulnerable.
Breakable.
The officer yelled at her a bit more, then left the room unsatisfied.
Ida closed her eyes as he left, taking a moment to breathe to herself.
But only a moment.
A third interrogator entered and started by shaking her chair violently. “You will tell me what I want to know,” he hissed in her ear, his voice resembling a snake. “Everything I want to know. In detail.”
Ida tightened her jaw, grinding her teeth together.
She would not give them anything. Not one single thing.
“The priests,” he said in a dark voice. “The nuns. The convents. All of it. Every religious institution you know. Names and addresses.” He backhanded Ida suddenly, the sting of his hand on her cheek more like fire than she expected. She could feel the scratches his nails had left in their wake, crackling like lightning on her newly sensitive skin. It felt like a branding, in a way, and there was no escaping the humiliation of the experience.
Or the indignation.
She imagined herself digging her heels into gravel out in the world, anywhere away from this room, resisting in a more physical sense than was possible now.
Anything to solidify the resolve in her mind.
“Do you know how easy it would be to break you, little Jew?” he rasped behind her, picking the chair up with her in it and dropping it back to the floor, literally rattling her. “And how fun?”
Ida inhaled deeply and exhaled the same.
“Dirty, little Jew.” He spat, the blob of moisture hitting her shoulder.
He said more things, but the interpreter said nothing.
Ida opened her eyes and looked at him, her eyes questioning.
“That,” the interpreter said simply, “was a great deal of foulness.”
There was something almost funny about his matter-of-fact explanation for his silence. About his unwillingness to translate what was said.
And the Nazi tormenting her wouldn’t even know.
It was a beautiful thing.
The Nazi shoved her head forward hard, making something twinge in her neck and her head feel as though she had gone through some wall. But then he stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
The guards behind her chair had not moved from the positions they had taken upon their arrival.
Perhaps they were used to this sort of thing.
What a terrible thing to become accustomed to.
A new man entered the room then, and he stopped right in front of Ida. “Get up,” was all he said, according to the interpreter.
Cautiously, Ida did so, her knees shaking immediately upon standing.
There was no time to find her balance before the man shoved her toward the corner of the room. She stumbled on her way, and was pushed just as hard again, until she crashed into the walls. He grabbed her shoulder and whirled her around, holding her tight into the corner, immediately beside one of the bay windows. He could have pushed her through the glass and onto the ground below if he’d moved her a few centimeters to her left. It might not be a catastrophic fall, but it would have done enough damage.
“I don’t think you understand how trivial your resistance is,” this new man said, according to the poor interpreter, who was still trying to keep things slow for her. “How futile.”
There was nothing futile about resisting the Nazis, no matter what they wanted anyone to believe. And considering what she was hiding, and what was at stake, there was nothing trivial about it either.
“You tell me what we want to know,” he ordered, shoving her hard into the corner again. “Every name and every address. Or I will send you to Breendonk, have you locked in a cell, and have food and water completely withheld until you have written them all down.”
Something new and impulsive lit into Ida as he continued to push and shove her against the walls, and she shook her head from side to side, even as her head was rammed against those walls by his force.
He said something very harsh, snarling in a feral manner, and reached into his jacket, withdrawing a gun. He cocked it quickly and pressed it to Ida’s chest.
Hard.
Then he laughed. Chuckled like he’d thought of something particularly humorous.
Ida swallowed, though it did not do anything to relieve the dryness in her mouth and throat. The perfectly circular rim of the gun barrel against her chest was all she could feel otherwise, pressed against her in such a way that she could not move in any direction without increasing that pain.
He leaned in, slowly and methodically, continuing to chuckle. The sound was echoing in her ears and reverberating down her limbs, wrapping around her spine, and invading her thoughts.
“Stubborn little Jew,” he whispered, his breath cascading over her face. “Tell us.”
Ida tried to swallow. Once, twice, and even a third time.
But she could not do it.
Her interrogator suddenly burst out laughing, loudly and with some genuine delight, somehow. He pulled the gun from her chest, still laughing.
Something in Ida broke, some band of tension that had taken hold of her body, and she began to laugh as well. A nervous, panicked, half-hysterical laugh that had her gasping painfully.
He ordered something as he turned away from her and left the room. The interpreter hurried his translation for her. “You’re to be taken back down to your cell,” he said in a rush as he took his leave as well.
Ida could manage a faint nod for him, but nothing more as one of the SS soldiers took her by the arm and hauled her from the room. This time, she was dragged, her legs completely without strength, though they hadn’t been touched by anyone during the course of the questioning. She was, quite simply, exhausted by the experience. Fairly well and whole, apart from the stinging in her cheek from the blow.
But drained in all other respects.
Half-carrying her, muttering to himself, the SS soldier brought her down both flights of stairs and deposited her back in the coal cellar. He dropped her onto the ground and pushed her legs out of the way of the door with his foot before closing the door and securing the latch.
Ida lay there on the floor for a long while, just breathing. Her legs began to shake, trembling and quivering with the aftershocks of her experience. Her lungs matched them, still allowing for inhalation and exhalation, but seeming to shiver as they did so. Her throat was now painfully dry, the desire to quench her thirst bordering on agony, but there was nothing to drink in their cellar.
That was part of the pattern there.
She pulled herself back to her usual corner where her bag still sat and laid her head upon it. Her mind contemplated the contents for a quick moment, and she recalled her mealtime treasures of watercress and cottage cheese.
It was not water, but it might do the trick.
Pushing herself up, Ida opened the bag and pulled them out, nibbling on the watercress as though it had come from the heavens itself.
“All right there, Watercress?” Maria asked softly.
Ida smiled in the darkness at the nickname her cellmate had given her and nodded, though no one would see. “For now, Maria. I’m all right for now.”