by Bodie Thoene
McDonald, with his suit coat not quite able to button across his paunch, his unshined shoes, and his rumpled hair, was a sad contrast to the carefully styled American, introduced to us as Gerald Snow. From that moment on, the American took charge.
“You three ladies really shook things up! You did indeed. Mister Goldwyn is very impressed.”
“Mister…Goldwyn?” Raquel repeated.
Murphy’s grin extending from ear-to-ear made me want to punch him.
“Yeah, Samuel Goldwyn. You know, MGM Studios? I’m sorry, I thought you knew.”
“Some miscommunication,” I said, frowning at Murphy, who grinned impishly back. “Please, continue.”
“Mister Goldwyn loved the impersonations of Lamarr, O’Hara, and Miranda. Thinks it’s a scream. But it’s more than that. Mister Goldwyn thinks you are great representatives of the refugee plight. Think of it: Spain, France, Austria, Germany…”
“Ireland?” Mariah noted.
“Yeah, that too,” Snow continued undeterred. “So here’s the deal: Hollywood first. Newsreels for sure. A short feature with the three of you gals. We get Barrett here to write a script. Then he stays in Tinseltown to work on the feature Mister Goldwyn wants: Europe crushed under the Nazi jackboot, England fights on alone, bloodied but unbowed—that sort of thing—while the three of you go off on a speaking tour. Raise American awareness about what’s really going on here. Plight of the refugees. What do you say?”
Mariah, Raquel, and I were stumped, which was saying a lot for the three of us. Finally I managed to ask, “Mister Goldwyn asked for us…personally?”
“Yeah, well, I saw the newspaper reports on your exploits first,” Snow admitted. “I encouraged him. ‘S.G.,’ I said, ‘you gotta give these gals a chance. They’re boffo.’”
From Raquel’s expression she was still translating boffo when the studio executive grew unexpectedly serious. “My last name—Snow—don’t let that fool you. Couple generations back it was Schneemann. Jewish as it gets. My wife and son…wait’ll you meet Robert. Six years old and already a handful. We’re going back to America on the first boat after I get all my business settled. Anyway, I thank heaven my great-grandparents got out of the old country when they did. But more bad things are gonna happen if more folks don’t get the chance they got, and that’s where you come in.”
“My children are in Pennsylvania,” I said.
Snow was ready for that objection. “Another month out of your life, tops, and MGM will pay all the expenses.”
“I have three little girls I’m responsible for,” Raquel suggested. “I can’t abandon them. And Pablo, my accompanist.”
McDonald volunteered, “Pablo Garcia. Famous guitarist.”
“Bring ’em,” Snow offered. “Same deal. Real refugees.”
That left only Mariah. “There’s me sister,” she said slowly. “And her two babes. She wants to go to America in the worst way. Always has.”
“Bring ’em.” Snow was smiling now, certain we had all agreed. “Had me worried for a minute,” he admitted. “Mister Goldwyn said ‘all or none.’ That’s what he said: ‘Those three or find me three other ones.’”
Knowing how eager Snow seemed to be to have the matter settled allowed me to ramp up my courage. “One more thing,” I said. “Real refugees? All right, there is one more requirement. I met a group of Westminster choirboys. Five of them. They sing like angels, and they’ve been working on American folk songs. I want”—I favored Mariah and Raquel with inquiring looks and received confirming nods in return—“we want them included as well.”
“Five boys, eh? All right. You drive a hard bargain, but bring ’em on. What’s S.G. gonna say? ‘Send ’em back?’ So, we’re agreed?”
We were.
Hours after news of our upcoming journey to the U.S. was announced, Murphy received a phone call from Eben Golah asking for us to come to a meeting at St. Mark’s, North Audley. Murphy and I arrived at Grosvener Square a few minutes past eight in the morning, following days of the worst bombings of the Blitz. Loralei and Eben greeted us when we stepped off the bus. Concrete tank barricades, mountains of sandbags, and barbed wire surrounded the buildings on the leafy square.
Loralei hugged me, looked deeply into my eyes, and placed a hand on my cheek. I knew that something big was underway. Murphy shook Eben’s hand and shared news as we made our way up the street toward the church.
I spoke of our experience in the shelter of Westminster Abbey and my concern that all the boys must surely be in great danger.
Loralei confirmed my belief. “The damage around Parliament Square is no accident. The Germans are targeting landmarks. The Abbey school has been closed. Boys sent home. Several have lost parents and are on the list of evacuees. At least you have managed to gain a place for five on the list of entertainers.”
Eben spoke quietly. “The Blitz has done more than burn down the East London docks. It has awakened those who have been sleeping in the halls of Parliament these many years.”
Loralei held my hand. “Awakened them to what Jewish children and parents went through trying to get someplace safe…anywhere.”
Eben added, “The intent of the Nazis is to bomb England into submission. To make her surrender.”
“It won’t happen,” Murphy replied, staring up the block toward the church’s sandbag-shielded portico and the blacked-out, stained-glass windows. “Not with Churchill finally at the helm of this ship of state. It’s going to be sink or swim here.”
“Then Hitler will do all he can to sink the ship. Many thousands of innocents will be killed as he carries out his plan.”
I thought of Katie and Charles and Louis, safe in America, and how soon I would be seeing them again. Unlike parents stuck in this island under siege, I was free from the worry about my children’s safety.
Neither Loralei nor I spoke as Eben and Murphy sorted out the facts.
Murphy stepped around a broken sandbag on the pavement and asked, “Official word on the numbers of dead?”
“There’ll never be an accurate count. East End. Whole families killed. Today’s casualty list is filled with the names of English schoolchildren from the poorer parts of London. Meanwhile your American newspapers publish photos of wealthy British children posing happily on country estates on Long Island.”
“And sightseeing in New York,” Murphy added grimly.
Eben held Murphy in his gaze. “Your children? In America? Is this correct?”
Murphy answered. “We’re lucky. My folks made the crossing from America before things got bad, then took the kids back home with them to Pennsylvania. And Elisa, going on an ENSA junket to Hollywood.”
“What about you?”
“My work is here. I’ve decided to stay on a while. Got a job to do now that the fireworks have really started. Someone’s got to report what’s going on. America may have her head in the sand, but I mean to kick that ostrich in the rear, hard as I can.”
“Time is short. Soon it will be too late for anyone else to leave. I mean, if America is drawn into the war.” Eben’s gaze rose to fix upon the white clouds sailing across the sky.
Murphy drew a deep breath. “Trouble is, American isolationists are too strong to let that happen easily. Roosevelt is committed to keeping us neutral. There’s lots of sentiment for America to stay out of a European war this time.”
“America’s interests are in the Orient. Japan will not let your country live in peace.”
“It would take something pretty big to blast the U.S. off the fence.”
Eben nodded, but I knew he did not agree with Murphy’s assessment. “As long as that is the case, American shipping remains neutral. There is opportunity to carry refugees—children—away from all this.”
Murphy shrugged. “Okay, Eben. So you’re thinking…maybe I can help. Along with Elisa’s tour. More publicity in America for the kids. If transport can be arranged from England.” I could see the wheels of determination turning in Murphy’s brain. Newsp
aper articles about the civilian devastation in England, broadcasts to America about homeless British children—all these things might open the floodgates for immigration. America had been deaf to the pleas of Eastern Europeans. What if the cries for refuge came from English-speaking children?
Eben nodded. “We know Elisa’s trip will help promote American support. Famous concert violinist. But we’re wondering: what if she is also an escort on board an evacuee ship? Photographs of British children in the American newspapers. This week, the Blitz has put the British government to the question. Why should the son of a rich man sleep in the safety of a New York hotel while the son of a poor man dozes in a tube station below a dangerous city?”
“How does Parliament answer?”
We slowly climbed the steps of St. Mark’s. “Churchill has agreed something must be done.”
Murphy’s eyes narrowed. “Better late than never.”
The enormous double doors swung wide on the black and white marble floor of the foyer. Early morning light beamed through stained-glass windows taped against bomb blasts. Aromas of hot porridge, tea, and toast mingled with the clamor of refugees eating breakfast on tin plates.
“Come on, then.” Loralei led us to the back of the auditorium.
Something was different in the makeup of the crowd. St. Mark’s was more jammed than I had ever seen it. The usual babble of foreign languages was laced with Cockney accents from dust-caked Londoners who had lost everything in the bombing. The din of voices and tin spoons against tin bowls was deafening.
Eben shoved his hands deep into his pockets. “Every center in London is the same this morning. Filled to capacity. Each refugee center would fill the cabins on every ship.” He waited for the sight to imprint upon our minds.
“There’s someone you must meet.” Loralei led the way beneath the solemn faces of stained-glass saints to a walnut-paneled meeting room. Mr. Geoffrey Shakespeare, newly appointed chairman of the Children’s Overseas Reception Board, called CORB, awaited us. At his side was Miss Lucinda Pike, hatchet-faced headmistress of a closed London girls’ school.
Mr. Shakespeare explained, “The task of the board is to select children of all classes, organize their passage overseas, and to see to their supervision on the passage and their reception and education until the war is over.”
Miss Pike eyed me sternly through thick spectacles. “We have received 100,000 applications within a few days. An impossible number, of course.”
Shakespeare continued, “No parents, relatives, or guardians are allowed to go. The children, ranging in age from five to fifteen, cannot travel alone. It has been decided to place them in the care of escorts, who will look after them on the voyage.”
Miss Pike lowered her chin and studied me. “Your name has been offered by the Jewish Agency as a possible escort.” She gave Eben a cursory nod. “We understand your expenses are already underwritten by…some Hollywood person. Your musical expertise and experience with the BBC might prove to be of benefit to the children in the crossing.”
Mr. Shakespeare quickly added, “And you have some public notoriety in the musical field. This will certainly be of benefit in publicizing the need of British children being placed in American homes for the duration.”
“I’ll do whatever I can to help,” I offered. “I want to be a voice for refugee children, regardless of their nationality.”
Mr. Shakespeare glanced at Miss Pike as if to ask if I would be suitable.
The woman pressed her thin lips together. “We are attempting to have a fair representation of various ethnic groups among the CORB children and their escorts. Yes. You fill a slot adequately, Missus Murphy. Or do you prefer your stage name—Linder, is it?”
“Please, call me Elisa.” I smiled.
She looked away. “Missus Murphy, we shall remain at all times on a professional plane. Your married name is Irish, but you’re actually…Jewish, aren’t you?”
I felt Murphy tense. He shifted uneasily beside me.
I said, “The crossing will only be six days.”
Miss Pike intoned. “We’ll hold religious services each day. You’ll be in charge of the music. And a musical hour…instruction…each day.”
I offered, “I’ll prepare a curriculum for the children.”
Miss Pike sniffed with disapproval. “There will be foreign children among the roster. The Jewish Agency has insisted upon this. Children of Jewish persuasion. I assume with your ethnic background that you will be able to keep the Jews entertained as well?”
Loralei’s eyes widened slightly at the coldness of the headmistress. She interrupted. “Well then, thank you, Mister Shakespeare, Miss Pike. It’s settled.”
Eben interjected, “As a member of the Jewish Agency, I grant my full approval of the selection. Elisa Lindheim Murphy will be sailing as an escort among the CORB volunteers. Perfect. Perfect.”
I was certain Miss Pike remained unconvinced of my suitability. Murphy and I stayed behind as Miss Pike and Mr. Shakespeare took their leave.
The actual departure date and time of the sailing would not be made public because of the danger of U-boats. Evacuee children would sail with us. I would be notified soon and must pack my bags for the journey.
I sent a wire to Mama with the news. Knowing I would be gone possibly for years, she traveled down to London to be with me one last time.
All that remained of my belongings was one black concert gown and pair of low-heeled black shoes that had been in my locker at the BBC. In my handbag were a few cosmetics: a precious bottle of Chanel No. 5 from prewar Paris, a compact, and a lipstick. Every other item of clothing, including my umbrella and raincoat, was borrowed from friends. What, I wondered, would I pack to take to America? And what would I pack in?
When my friends in the orchestra heard I was sailing for America, they took up a collection and presented me with a new leather valise with my name engraved on a brass plate, and a cheque with funds enough for a shopping trip to Harrods.
With a sense of celebration, Mama and I spent the morning together shopping the bargain racks for sensible traveling clothes. I selected three skirts: khaki cotton for warm days, a solid navy blue wool, and a black watch tartan. Three blouses, a heavy Aran cardigan, and a warm, double-breasted raincoat with a thick quilted lining completed my wardrobe.
Practical. Sensible. Durable. All these descriptive words made sense in my present circumstances. I was pleased.
Mama reviewed my purchases with satisfaction and possibly amusement. “Very good, Elisa. So sturdy you could hike across the Alps in such attire. And I see you’ve enough cash left over for a special gift for your husband.”
“Something for Murphy—oh yes, Mama! He could use a new pair of warm trousers. A new tie.”
Mama smiled and shook her head from side to side. “No, my darling. You and your husband will be apart for perhaps a very long time. I promise, John Murphy will need something more than new trousers to keep him warm after you have gone.” Mama took me by the hand and led me straight to the lingerie department. She ran her fingers gently over the soft silk of a floor-length azure negligee on the mannequin. It was something Claudette Colbert might have worn in the movies. The low-cut bodice was trimmed in lace. Spaghetti straps were not meant to hold anything up for very long. Mama winked at me. “Elisa, you will look lovely in this. However briefly you may wear it. It is the wrapping only. Be sure to let Murphy open his gift, eh?”
I embraced my mother for the last time at Kings Cross rail station, then hurried back to the Savoy.
That night I lay back in the warm water of the deep tub and closed my eyes. This would be my last chance for a good long soak in a bubble bath before I reached America, and I was in no hurry to finish.
Murphy called to me through the door, “Hope the Nazi air force will give you a little time before they come back. Otherwise it’s going to be an interesting jog to the air raid shelter.”
Steam fogged the mirror. My contented voice echoed in the pale gr
een tiled bathroom. “I’m not budging even if the entire Luftwaffe buzzes past our room.”
I heard him mutter, “Yeah, well, if they spot you through the window, they’ll be parachuting onto the roof.”
I glanced toward the green Harrods box containing the negligee. I smiled. Little did he know…
Mama was always right. She knew my last night with Murphy needed to be special.
Murphy fiddled with the dial of the radio in search of romantic music. Instead, war news blared the disaster of a passenger ship sunk by a U-boat, mid-Atlantic. Two passengers out of nearly four hundred had been killed. All the rest had been rescued after a few hours. Only two lost out of the entire ship’s company seemed a victory of sorts. Never mind that the vessel was sunk, 398 souls had been rescued and would live to sail another day.
My mind was set on joining my children on the far side of the ocean. I was undaunted by the news of the U-boat attack, though Murphy seemed shaken.
“How did the torpedo miss the British navy and manage to sink a neutral passenger ship?”
“They were aiming for the British navy and missed,” I consoled.
“Like they’re aiming for factories and hitting churches. That’s a good indication of Nazi marksmanship. I guess we should be consoled in a weird sort of way.”
He paused and poked his head into the bathroom. Grinning at me through the steam, he gave a low whistle and cupped his hands around his eyes as if he were looking through binoculars. “One look at you on deck by a U-boat crew? It’ll be up-periscope and the whole wolf pack full steam ahead.”
I chucked a wet face cloth at him. “Out!”
He howled and dodged my missile, slamming the door behind him. We continued our playful conversation through the door panel. “Now I really don’t want you to leave!”
“My goal is to make you want to come with me to America.”
“Sooner or later? ’Cuz I’m ready to sail with you right now!”
“Patience. ‘Eine kleine Nachtmusik first,’” I teased.
