“The Seder plate contains five ingredients, which we have assembled on our plate tonight. Zroa—roasted bone, to remind us of the sacrifice our people offered to God before leaving Egypt. Baytzah—hard-cooked egg, a symbol of new life, and of the offerings in the temple in Jerusalem. Maror—horseradish root or romaine lettuce, whose bitter taste reminds us how bitter it was to be slaves in Egypt. Horoset—a mixture of fruit, nuts, and wine that looks like the mortar the Jewish slaves used in the making of bricks during their bondage. And Karpas—leafy green parsley to bring springtime to the Seder table.”

Again the rabbi glanced toward the baron. “This Seder plate is all the more special,” he said, “in that its ingredients have come from the garden and farm of our host. Also we have here a small bowl of salt water, which reminds us of the sea our people had to cross when they escaped from Egypt. And we always prepare a glass of wine to sit next to the plate for Elijah the prophet, whom the baron has already mentioned. Legend says that Elijah may come and visit our Seder meal and take a sip of the wine.

“Then finally, in this last basket, sits the Passover bread, hard and flat as you can see, unleavened. It is called Matzoh, because our people left Egypt in such a hurry that there was no time for their bread to rise.”

At this point, he glanced toward the baron with a slight nod.

91 Unpleasant Thoughts

91

Unpleasant Thoughts

With every kilometer, the dreaded weapon in Gustav’s lap grew heavier and heavier.

He had never killed.

He had seen it done—and had winced inwardly each time death came so close. He had succeeded tolerably well in masking his inner repugnance at what he was forced to witness. He even tried to convince himself that he would grow out of such squeamishness and took every beating or arrest or questioning or raid as fit opportunity to gain more practice in the hardened art of cruelty, which was the stock-in-trade of his Gestapo colleagues.

Never had Gustav met a more frigid specimen of humanity than he who sat beside him at the wheel at this moment.

Emil Korsch had killed. Gustav had seen him do so without so much as a flinch, unless it was the faint flicker of a morbid smile.

Now here they were on the way to the house where he had spent so much time as a youngster. A rifle sat in his lap, a rifle that Korsch would expect him to use.

What would he do if it came to a face-to-face showdown with Baron von Dortmann?

What would he do if it came to a choice between past loyalties and present ones? This was an aspect of the scenario he hadn’t foreseen. Which did he want more—whatever future Korsch might be able to give him, or Sabina?