Down a dark residential street came the hollow echo of hobnailed boots, the now-familiar sound of a column of marching Nazis. As the feet pounded the roadway, the cadence grew ominous in its rhythmical element, each hammered step casting forth a web of piercing foreboding, like a pound of steel nails shaken aggressively in a tin box. In the nine months of occupation, the Third Reich had already proven itself an evil beast not to be trifled with, a bloodthirsty jackal, primed and alert, ready to take down and devour whatever stood between it and conquering for the Führer.
Amsterdam, once lively and carefree, with an opulent brilliance, the apple of the Netherlands’ eye, had high hopes of defeating the invading forces, but instead, as the rest of Holland, fell to German Blitzkrieg in just four days. Its heart now stood wrenched open and forever wounded. Its previously unblemished optimism, not unlike the heaps of ice on the ground, forever tarnished, pebble-dashed and smothered by the dark forces of evil that had also arrived in gray.
As the sound became deafening on the quiet city street, behind locked doors and shuttered windows, fearful faces froze, eyes closed in silent prayer. Chilled souls hoping that their one defiant act of un-parted curtains would signal their united scream of resistance, allowing them to hang onto the last strands of their civility. The footfalls faded, but the fear lingered much longer than the echoes. Only once there was total silence did they allow themselves the luxury to breathe and return to the business of surviving. Thanking God once again—not this street, not this day.
Across town, a ticking clock matched the rhythm of the marching feet. Professor Josef Held stared at its white face and sharp, black hands, unaware of the dangerous rhythm it marked time with. The clock hung high on a wall, watching over a large classroom filled with rows of students. A high ceiling held aloft by ornate limestone cornices gave way on one side to dusty but ordered bookcases, and on the other to an elegant bank of windows.
Professor Held worked wordlessly, grading papers at his desk. An awkward middle-aged man of forty-seven, seemingly uncomfortable in his own skin, he rarely looked up. When he did, a ghost of handsomeness lingered about him. It seeped out through his perfect blue eyes and striking black hair, only beginning to gray at the temples. And even though he had spent his life bent over this one desk, somehow his body managed to retain a semblance of youthful tautness more suited to a retired athlete than an unassuming mathematics professor.
In his classroom, the regime of marching soldiers seemed far away as diligent students set their minds to work, with shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows and heads bent over heavy oak desks. Other than the ticking of the clock, there was nothing to hear except the occasional hushed cough or a busy pencil scratching dry paper. The room seemed timeless, and the hours endless. As the hands of the clock finally met at the midday hour, a weak sun fought its way through the hopeless slate sky and grazed the high windows.
Held exchanged one math paper for another, and stopped. Upon the sheet in front of him there was no math, no answers to the numbered problems. Instead the page was covered with a poem, “Panther,” written by Rilke, his late wife’s favourite poet. Shaking his head, he sighed, exasperated, not wanting to think about Sarah today. He took off the silver-rimmed glasses that were a well-chosen prop for a man who wanted to buffer himself from the outside world. Gently he placed them on the desk and rubbed his eyes before replacing them, one loop of hooked wire at a time, back on his face. He looked at the clock and cleared his throat. “Class dismissed. Mr. Blum, I need a moment of your time.”
University students quietly filed out the door, escaping the stifled silence of the room. One student, Elke Dirksen, her lovely eyes filled with concern, lingered in the doorway as she watched Michael Blum stride toward the front. With his good looks, Michael seemed like the best of what youth could offer. Twenty-two years old, vibrant, and with a restless charisma. Michael’s eyes sparkled with defiant humor as he winked at Elke in the corridor.
Professor Held waited at his desk for the classroom to empty while he stacked his papers into an orderly pile. As the room grew silent and the door closed, he pulled Michael’s paper to the top. He spoke directly to him without looking up. “You are aware, Mr. Blum, that this is an advanced mathematics course.”
Michael laughed.
After many years of teaching, Held was unaffected by insolence. “This is not the first time we have had this discussion. You have written on your assignment again rather than solving the formula as requested.”
Michael balked. “What? You don’t like Rilke?”
Professor Held continued, “That has nothing to do with it. Poetry belongs in books, not on mathematics papers.”
A sharp intake of breath from Michael lasted a split second before it dissolved into a tone of controlled bitterness that brimmed just under his words. “It’s no longer so easy for me to just buy… books. Do you even know who he is?”
For the first time, the older man looked up. “I beg your pardon?”
Michael became animated, enthusiastic even. “Rainer Maria Rilke. The poet? He is considered one of the most romantic—”
Professor Held tried to stop Michael short with a raised hand.
Michael’s face registered angry frustration. Then he continued, “Look, none of this matters anyway, because today is my last day.”
Professor Held lowered his eyes and dragged a new pile of papers toward himself. As he did, he pushed Michael’s paper across his orderly desk. “Please complete the assignment.”
Michael shook his head. “Today. Is. My. Last. Day. I am not going to sit here waiting for them to come after me. And I will not be forced into the Arbeitseinsatz.”
Held looked up briefly. So many of the young men were being forced into working in German factories; resisting could be dangerous. He wanted to say as much, but instead he retreated back behind the safety of his wall.
“Still, you need to complete this assignment.”
Michael snatched up the paper. As he leaned forward, a flyer fell out of his satchel onto the desk. The corner was torn off. Michael had obviously ripped it down, probably in anger. It was instructions ordering all the Jewish people to register. Both men stared at it and froze. The ticking clock and muffled sounds in the hallway filled the deafening space between them. Held realized all at once that Michael was Jewish, and he felt helpless, wordless. Wanted to take back his severe manner, but before he could say anything, Michael picked up the math paper and slowly and defiantly crumpled it into a ball and dropped it on the professor’s desk.
“Do you honestly think that any of this is important? The courage to fight and to love—that’s all that is important right now. And you won’t find any of that in a mathematical formula.”
Slowly pushing his glasses farther up his nose, Professor Held stared at the ball of crumpled paper.
Elke opened the door. “Michael! Come now!”
The sound of marching feet echoed down the hall toward the classroom. Michael moved swiftly toward the door.
Held opened his desk drawer and pulled out a book. It was a well-worn copy of Rilke’s New Poems. He signaled to his young student. “Before you go, Mr. Blum––”
Michael turned and Held pushed the book across the desk. Michael approached, curious, in spite of himself. Noting the title, he opened it reverently. Held watched him read the inscription on the first page, handwritten by his father.