by Bodie Thoene
“Yes, Reichsführer Himmler, her friend Leah Feldstein. And the Feldstein woman’s husband, it seems, is one of the Jewish swine aboard that ship that has caused so much uproar. Elisa Murphy will meet with John Murphy at L’Opera tomorrow night at eight-thirty. I heard it plainly. No attempt to conceal it. They both sounded quite relieved. She says her duties with the BBC are complete, and she will meet him.”
There was silence on the line as Heinrich Himmler considered the words of his agent. “Well, then. This simplifies things. I will call Georg at the embassy. He will be pleased to have this handed to him so easily.”
“Would you like me to continue following?”
Another silence. “No, Hans. You have done well. But it would not hurt to let him know we have not been asleep. Don’t harm him. He is a fool and a nuisance, but she is the one we are after. We do not want to drive her underground again. Step back, and we will present this to Georg as nearly completed, ja?”
***
Murphy recognized the German who walked toward him on the quay where the steamboat back to Geneva waited. He was one of the men Cabrillo told him was there to sell the Jews of Germany for two hundred fifty a head.
The man was big. Close-cropped blond hair, a thick neck, and hands like a football player. He was smiling at Murphy.
“Hi,” he said. Just like an American!
“You talking to me?” Murphy instinctively ran a finger against the side of his slightly crooked nose. This was the kind of man who might have been on the docks with the Nazis in New York. He looked as if he could do damage if he wanted to.
“Yes. You are John Murphy, aren’t you?” American. No doubt. From Chicago maybe? Or Detroit? What was he doing selling for the Nazis?
“So what?”
“My name is Hans Erb,” he said brightly. Friendly.
“Like I said, so what?” Murphy spurned the man’s hand and started to walk past him.
“I just wanted to let you know we’re watching. Found a place for those Jews of yours yet? They can always come back to Hamburg!” he called as Murphy kept walking.
The EVIAN sign on the dock was plainly reflected in the polished brass of the steamer door. Murphy frowned as he read the mirror-image of the name in the brass: NAIVE the name now cried. Evian spelled backward read naive. The German stepped beneath the sign. Murphy could see him grinning at his back.
The Evian council for the aid of refugees had come to an end.
***
It must be daylight by now, Maria thought. They had been enclosed in this metal coffin for so many hours. The rolling of the Darien seemed to have eased some.
No one had eaten since the onset of the storm. The children who had been sick through the night now put their hands to their empty bellies. There would be no way to eat until they were out of danger, if they did manage to pass through this sea.
The rabbi of Nuremberg sat cloaked in his canvas tallith near the door to the infirmary. His lips moved in silent prayer. Had he ever stopped praying through this long and terrible ordeal?
Little Israel still had not opened his mouth to cry. He cooed and now turned his mouth toward Maria’s breast. At least he would be able to eat. He alone would be fed.
Like the rabbi of Nuremberg, Israel had lain untroubled in the midst of the night’s terror. Maria lifted her blouse and let him nurse. To eat; to sleep an untroubled sleep; to wake and never know the dark fear of death that surrounded them. Maria smiled. It seemed strange that she could smile now, but Israel nursed and looked at her with eyes so trusting and content that she had to smile back at him.
***
The blackness of night moved into deep gray as the sun rose somewhere. Captain Burton and Shimon were still at the helm, still pointed west, although they had not moved forward more than one or two miles throughout the long night.
The radioman was asleep. As the wheelhouse brightened, Burton kicked him awake. The winds that had seemed to be abating shifted again to roar in from the southeast. Waves broke against the stern, pushing the ailing freighter forward toward the Cape. The seas had tamed from fifty-foot swells to twenty-five and thirty-five feet.
With the dawn, some hope was renewed in the wheelhouse. They had survived the worst! There was more storm racing in behind them, but if the Darien could make it to shore . . .
***
A long line of young airmen stood at attention as Theo took his leave of them. There had been no official explanation why Theo and his sons were being transferred to the Prague defenses. Most believed that it was because the name Theo Linder had undoubtedly been placed on the list of criminals Hitler wished returned to Germany for justice.
Wilhelm and Dieter both resented the fact that they would not be at the front with the units they had trained for. Whatever the reason for this transfer, Theo did not question it. The seal of President Beneš himself marked the document.
With a final salute, Theo strode from the field. These were good men. They had learned quickly, and they would give the Luftwaffe something to contend with.
All of the Sudetenland seemed deserted now. Entire families had fled their homes, leaving food on the tables and livestock untended in the fields. The train into Prague was crowded with remnants of the Czechs who had waited until the last possible moment to leave. Word that France had placed one and a half million men along the Maginot Line from the English Channel to the Swiss frontier had finally convinced most of them that this was indeed the end of peace.
Theo breathed a sigh of gratitude when he heard of the French move. Then he, like others, had felt a twinge of resentment at the news that Prime Minister Chamberlain was flying once more to meet with Hitler—this time in Munich; this time with French leaders as well as Mussolini and Hitler to discuss the possibility of a peaceful solution to the Czech crisis. Why had President Beneš been excluded from the conference that was to decide the fate of his own country? The possibility of a betrayal of Czechoslovakia by France and England seemed very real at this moment, in spite of the French Army along the Maginot Line.
The train rumbled past a tiny farming village. The onion-domed church spire soared in the clear air. Now Theo remembered. It was Sunday. Is anyone in church this morning? he wondered. Or has everyone stayed home to pray in solitude for peace?
Anna, breathless and beautiful on the platform, answered his question. Gathering husband and sons into her arms, she whispered through her tears, “Our Lord has not forgotten us. You are home! You are home!” And then she checked her watch and gasped that they must hurry or they would miss church this morning.
Stomachs rumbling with hunger, the three airmen followed meekly after her. Wilhelm and Dieter rolled their eyes. They had never enjoyed the services at the Anglican church Anna had chosen to attend. Week after week they had sat in the half-empty sanctuary and worked very hard to understand the English words. They read the Scripture in English. Sang hymns in English. Theo joked that they might as well get used to the language, but he still would pray in German.
The worshipers were usually diplomats or visiting politicians and businessmen. A handful of tourists sometimes joined the sparse crowd, but there had been fewer of them as the threat of Nazi invasion increased.
This morning, there was something different about the church. Every pew was crowded. Men and women waited outside the huge bronze doors in a line that stretched clear out to the street. Heads nodded in greeting to Anna. She smiled back familiarly.
Had the fear of German bombs brought these newcomers to a sense of their own mortality? In searching the skies above Prague for bombers, had men caught a glimpse of the Almighty?
Theo took his place at the end of the queue.
“What is all this?” Wilhelm asked as the men in front of them removed their hats to enter the church. “I thought all the tourists had gone home.”
Anna shrugged and then a peculiar smile touched her lips. “Listen,” she whispered, not willing to explain that these were the men and women who had come to the soup
kitchen.
Theo, Wilhelm and Dieter fell silent as the church bells chimed; then a murmur of conversation caught their attention. All the words spoken by the strangers were spoken in German. Theo recognized the soft accent of the Viennese.
“German?” asked Dieter.
“Austrian,” explained Theo. Then he laughed a short laugh. “Family members from Austria, Anna? First you ask them to dinner, and then to church?”
Wilhelm’s eyes widened as he scanned the line of worshipers. Not only were these strangers from Austria—they were Jews!
Snatches of Yiddish were heard here and there, but most of those who entered the Anglican church this morning spoke in the language of the cultured and educated. “Guten Morgen, Frau Anna!” Again and again the greeting echoed as they entered the building.
The pews were packed. Worshipers stood along the aisles and three deep against the back wall. The massive Church of England had been built to house eight hundred. This Sunday over one thousand crowded beneath the dark wood arches.
Anna, Theo, and the boys stood in the back and gazed in wonder at the sea of heads. Above them was a small choir loft where a dozen puzzled Englishmen filed into place. The rector, a small, gray-haired man, emerged onto the platform. He adjusted his spectacles as though he could not believe that he had at last been sent a congregation in this backwater outpost of the great Church of England.
He tugged the sleeves of his clerical robe and then in a flourish he directed the thousand to stand and sing. “Page 342 in the hymnal, please!”
The organ blared the opening chords of “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God.” This was a Lutheran hymn, to be sure, but the congregation recognized the tune immediately—the melody found in Mendelssohn’s Symphony No.5, “The Reformation.” Many had heard the symphony played at the Musikverein in Vienna over the years. With such a familiar melody, nearly everyone made an attempt to sing the words of Martin Luther’s famous hymn. A mixture of accents rose up to echo the phrase:
“A bulwark never failing;
Our helper He, amid the flood
Of mortal ill prevailing:
For still our ancient foe
Doth seek to work us woe;
His craft and power are great,
And, armed with cruel hate—”
With that sentiment, nods of understanding began to tip the heads of the congregation. They had not realized that the Fifth Symphony of the Jewish composer Mendelssohn actually had words! The song gained volume and momentum by the time the second verse began. Heads lifted up, voices boomed the song! Here and there, the words were translated for those who did not speak English.
“Did we in our own strength confide
Our striving would be losing;
Were not the right Man on our side;
The Man of God’s own choosing
Dost ask Who that may be?
Christ Jesus, it is He;
Lord Sabaoth His Name,
From age to age the same,
And He must win the battle.”
Had there ever been such a sermon preached? A Lutheran hymn in an Anglican church with a congregation of Jews!
“And though this world, with devils filled,
Should threaten to undo us;
We will not fear, for God hath willed
His truth to triumph through us.”
When the last chord of the pipe organ faded away into the rafters, the message was fresh and living in the hearts of the congregation. Tears streamed down many faces as the meek English priest preached a sermon on the Lord of the Sabbath, and the Jewish rabbi from Galilee. “‘I am the Way and the Truth and the Life,’ saith the Lord. “‘No man comes to the Father except through me . . . ’”
And when all was said, the English priest closed the Bible and looked out at the Chosen Ones who packed his pews. He cleared his throat and in a voice that seemed louder than the organ, he spoke again.
It was time to speak the truth. Perhaps there would not be another time. “I know why most of you have come here. You have come to request baptism.”
The congregation sat in a stunned silence as he continued. “Yes, I know that possessing an Anglican baptism certificate may help you gain entry into another country. We are all aware it will mean nothing if the Germans invade this country, since their determination is not against religion, but blood.”
Anna grasped Theo’s strong hand and prayed. He had been a Christian for years, but his faith had not helped him escape the terrors of the Nazi Reich. It would not save their sons. No. All that mattered to the Nazis was pure race. Pure blood, pure Aryan. What would become of them if the Czech government collapsed under their pressure?
The voice of the rector cracked with emotion. “Last week a girl of sixteen came to me to request baptism. I simply handed her a catechism and told her to come back when she knew it. Two days later she returned, after memorizing the entire catechism in a language with which she was only vaguely familiar!”
He paused. “I had not . . . expected . . .” He removed his glasses and then began again. “I baptized that girl. She has her certificate now. And I wish to tell all of you that have come here for that reason, I will make no requirement that you memorize a book of doctrine! It matters not what your reasons are. I will baptize you, every one of you who asks.”
A low, astonished murmur rippled through the crowd. Once again the rector drew a deep breath. “And I ask only that you think on this: God will not turn you from the door of His kingdom if you call upon the name of His Son Jesus! Here, too, it is a matter of blood—the blood of Jesus, the Messiah of Israel, the Lamb of God, will cleanse you from all sin. The water of baptism is a symbol of His death for us and His resurrection. This is what you identify with when you partake of this sacrament.” He raised his arms toward heaven. “And if the Nazis come, if the certificate of baptism is of no help to you at all, I pray that you will remember what the baptism itself meant, and that your heart will reach out to that Eternal Truth.”
There was a solemn silence among those who had come for this sermon. Heads began to bow in thought, in prayer, questioning their own hearts and motives. The rector left the podium, and stepped to the center of the platform. “No one will be refused. What happens in your hearts is God’s business.”
That day and far into the night, seven hundred twenty-nine of the Chosen went forward to be baptized. And each cast a glance at Anna, who remained standing through it all.
42
The Munich Signature
Armed Czech soldiers were waiting on the steps of the church when Anna and Theo and their sons emerged near midnight. They held their weapons up and stepped forward to call the name of Theo Lindheim.
“You are on the list of criminals presented to President Beneš for extradition,” explained a tall, serious colonel. “You will come with us. All of you.”
Wilhelm looked as if he might fight. Anna placed a hand on his arm. The rifles—would these men use them?
“You will please get in the car.” The officer bowed slightly and clicked his heels, waving his hand toward the open door of the black sedan.
“What has happened?” Theo asked, filled with foreboding.
There were tears in the eyes of the colonel. “Chamberlain and Daladier have signed us over to the Nazis. We must comply with their wishes, or France and Britain will step back and let Hitler have even Prague.”
“The Sudetenland has fallen?”
“Given away, without a shot.” The colonel’s shoulders sagged for a moment. “Now, please, Officer Lindheim. It is finished for us here. President Beneš has resigned. You are a part of the bargain. Please come with me.”
***
In the German Embassy in Paris, Georg Wand raised a glass with his delicate hand in a toast to the end of Czechoslovakia. Hitler had been right. He had been right from the beginning. Cowards and fools had come at his bidding to Munich, and there they had put their signatures to the death warrant of Czechoslovakia. Chamberlain called the document
Peace in our time. Such was the peace of a corpse.
For both Thomas and Ernst vom Rath the news was devastating. The military plot against Hitler had now been effectively demolished. Not only had Prime Minister Chamberlain taken the madman away from the Chancellery in Berlin, out of the grip of the military, he had also destroyed the very reason for the coup!
Accuse Hitler now of rushing Germany into a conflagration? Not a drop of Wehrmacht blood had been shed! The victory over the Czechs was complete, just as the Führer had told the people it would be! And now who in Germany could stand against him? The hordes of people cheered him as he rode proudly through the streets. The Wagnerian opera was being played out as he directed it. Anyone who opposed him now, any who dared to claim that he was mad and would destroy Germany would himself be declared a traitor and shot.
Georg Wand stood at the center of the gathering, a self-satisfied smile on his ordinary face. “The tactics of terror, you see,” he said to the attentive Nazi diplomats. “These are the elements of a modern war. Decent men cannot stand against such things because they have rules, ideas of what is honorable. The Führer shows us all a lesson, does he not? To have honor is to win or die.” At this he paused and smiled strangely at Thomas. “What do you think of this, von Kleistmann?—you, with your ancient Prussian codes?”
“I suppose it all depends on your definition of winning, doesn’t it, Wand?”
Georg Wand took a step forward. His smile was still in place but his eyes hardened. “And is your definition the same as that of the Führer, von Kleistmann? Or do you think yourself too far above our ways, as it is rumored some of the army officers believe?”
So here it was. The confrontation had come after the fact of the betrayal of the Czechs. It had come after it was too late for the Berlin plot to be carried out. Georg Wand and his kind had won an ultimate victory, and yet they still required something from those they had vanquished. Georg Wand would not be satisfied until Thomas had given him his soul in the form of frightened approval of his evil brutality.
