Against the Wind

by Bodie Thoene

  Sincerely, Elisa Lindheim Murphy

  I returned the letter to Lindy, who read it aloud to her companions. She thanked me with a hug.

  “That’s for Mum. I know she will smile when she reads this.”

  We did not hear the approach of Miss Pike. The dour matron, clothed in a long flannel nightgown and nightcap, loomed in the doorway. “What’s all this!” she demanded. “What! What! Don’t you know it’s past curfew?”

  The trio of girls cowered.

  I rose from the desk. “I had an important letter to write to Lindy’s mother.”

  “You could accomplish your task before curfew, Missus Murphy.”

  “It was past curfew when we arrived here, Miss Pike.” I motioned the girls to hurry back to their dorm as I dealt with the tyrant.

  “You are a representative of CORB—and as such you will obey the rules.”

  I countered, “I am a private citizen escorting these girls as a favor to your organization. Now I must ask you, Miss Pike: what are you doing up and about after curfew? Morning will come awfully early.”

  My question flustered the grim woman. She blinked at me through her thick glasses and then with a harrumph scurried off to her own quarters.

  Grateful Lindy had come to me seeking comfort for her mother, I settled down on my groaning cot with the promise of Psalm 91 fresh in my mind: “A thousand shall fall at thy side, and ten thousand at thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee.”7

  Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for You are with me; Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.

  PSALM 23:4 ESV

  VIENNA, AUSTRIA

  DECEMBER 21, 1937

  I heard the bells of St. Stephan’s Cathedral ring as I set out to the music school today. Each ominous, mournful clang marked a step I took toward the Musikverein and the hidden Guarnerius Rudy told me about.

  Overnight, Nazi gangs have been busy. The streets are plastered with posters. Jews out of Vienna! the handbills shout. As fast as Austrian police remove them, three more spring up.

  I carried an empty violin case with me. I did not think anyone was watching me or had heard Rudy’s dying request for me to get the violin, but I was still fearful someone might have followed. It would not do to enter the building empty-handed and emerge carrying a violin.

  In the music school hallway echoing with the emptiness of the holidays, I have found the Guarnerius violin exactly where Rudy said: behind the case containing the grinning jaws and empty eye sockets of the skull of Joseph Haydn.

  The presence of death seems a fitting metaphor for all that is happening around me. Jews are being assaulted. Rudy tortured and killed. My father confined in the living hell called Dachau. Austria is dying and will soon be as dead as Haydn.

  I heard a piano being played somewhere in the warren of practice rooms. I think now it was the ghost of Haydn mocking all our efforts to snatch lives from the ravening Nazi jaws.

  I switched the violin cases as Rudy told me to do. Rudy’s broken body was vivid in my mind as I resisted running from the hall.

  Tonight, Rudy’s handsome face, battered beyond recognition, will not leave my thoughts. Was there a reason Rudy hid the violin case behind Haydn’s skull? Perhaps the skull is a warning…or perhaps it is a prophecy.

  Hear my cry, O God, listen to my prayer…for You have been my refuge, a strong tower against the enemy. Let me dwell in Your tent forever! Let me take refuge under the shelter of Your wings!

  PSALM 61:1, 3–4 ESV

  VIENNA, AUSTRIA

  DECEMBER 1937 (CONTINUED)

  A miracle this diary is still here. The police were waiting in my apartment when I returned home. The little Jewish man who lived downstairs let them in. I am certain he was too afraid to warn me they were there, even though he told me of danger to my friends in the Jewish Quarter.

  The Shupos told me they were checking the stories of everyone in the orchestra and asked why I had missed the performance. I did not want to tell them I had seen what happened to Rudy. I repeated my tale of having been ill because of hearing the news that my brother was sick and my family would not come to Vienna for the holidays.

  A nondescript man drew a nondescript notebook from a matching coordinated overcoat. Flipping over several pages, he advised that I had been reported as being away from home for several hours. The other man, with his scuffed shoes and shiny, dark blue suit, eyed me suspiciously.

  “Of course,” I said indignantly, “I had to make a phone call. You can check if you like.”

  I denied having seen Rudy that evening.

  They tried to get me to admit being well-acquainted with Rudy, but I evaded it. I took a high moral tone and told them Rudy had brought trouble on himself. They said I had been seen at the concert hall. If I was well enough to go out, why wasn’t I performing?

  I extended my hands, which were genuinely trembling. “I’m a violinist. How can I play like this?”

  Suddenly my stomach turned over, and I was genuinely nauseous too. When I looked at my own hand, I suddenly had a vision of Rudy’s, all hacked and bloody.

  They tried to suggest Rudy and I were lovers, but this was safer ground, and I was able to laugh scornfully. I told them that the American newsman John Murphy was my lover and that he would certainly be interested in hearing about their interrogation in my apartment. This shook them up a little.

  They believed me, apologized, pleading the need to complete their routine investigation, and left.

  After they departed, I began to shake in earnest from my toes to the top of my head and shiver uncontrollably. Had these men seen what had been done to Rudy—to that bright, talented, heroic life? And they were here, pestering me, instead of finding the Nazi thugs who killed him?

  6 KJV

  7 Psalm 91:7 KJV

  10

  LIVERPOOL, ENGLAND

  AUTUMN 1940

  At daybreak Miss Pike rousted us out of the dormitory and onto buses. Every morning there was a lull in the Nazi bombing raids between when the last of the night squadrons departed for Germany and before the massive daylight attacks began. Taking advantage of this window of relative safety, we were hustled to the docks.

  It was there we got our first glimpse of the SS Newcastle, which would be our home for the next week, as well as our passport to a world without war. She was eight decks high from keel to bridge and loomed over the dock like a floating block of London flats. Her two smokestacks puffed gently, as if welcoming us aboard.

  The contrast to blacked-out and partially demolished wartime London could not have been greater. Newcastle was sparkling clean. Though her hull was gray, Newcastle’s superstructure was gleaming white and her funnels adorned with black and red stripes.

  None of my girls had ever been farther from home than London. Alice claimed to have visited Paris, but no one believed her. Memorable outings for Lindy and Betsy had been occasional trips to the pleasure pavilion at Brighton. Margaret’s eyes were wide, and Lindy was hurriedly scribbling in her notebook. Betsy tugged at her cousin’s sleeve. “Lindy!” she said urgently. “It’s huge! Won’t we get lost?”

  “Not to worry,” Lindy assured her. “Elisa will look after us.”

  I would not have to meet all their needs alone, I learned. Newcastle had a complement of two hundred officers and crew. Of these, over half were from India—lascars, they were called. Since there were only ninety evacuees with the CORB program, sometimes it felt as if each child had a personal servant.

  Dressed in white cotton tunics, wearing slippers with turned-up toes, and sporting turbans in pink or orange or sky blue, the lascar stewards were also far outside my girls’ experience. Margaret pointed and whispered to Alice: “Are they wearing their pajamas?”

  “I think it’s wonderful,” Lindy breathed. “Like genies from the Arabian Nights.”

  The first steward to greet us at the top of the gangplank bowed from the waist to receive Lindy aboard. “Welcome, mis
sy,” he said. “May I show you to your stateroom?” For a girl from Lewes with two e’s, it must have been a most memorable moment.

  My girls were bunked together, with me in an adjacent cabin.

  As soon as the full muster of refugee children, chaperones, and paying passengers were accounted for, Newcastle got up steam, unmoored, and moved out into the channel.

  Whereupon we dropped anchor.

  “Why are we stopping?” Alice fretted. “Are we sinking? Aren’t we going to America after all?”

  The explanation, delivered by Pablo, was simple: “The Newcastle sails as part of a convoy. We cannot leave until all the other ships are ready. Tonight we wait here; tomorrow, we sail.”

  I was explaining this to my charges when there was a diffident tap at the door. A lascar in a pink turban bowed, introduced himself as Sanjay, and inquired if “the English misses and memsahib would like anything.”

  Nan blurted out, “Like what? We didn’t have breakfast. Would there be any toast about, do you suppose?”

  “Most certainly,” Sanjay agreed. “And perhaps tea, yes?”

  The girls nodded. Tea and toast would be very agreeable.

  Then Sanjay stunned us all by adding, “And a selection of fresh fruit, perhaps?”

  “Fresh…,” Lindy began.

  “Fruit?” Betsy concluded.

  “Dear me, yes. The young misses would like oranges, or would perhaps bananas be more to your liking?”

  “Both, please,” Nan returned, and Sanjay bowed his way out.

  “Oranges!” Alice said. “I haven’t had an orange since last Christmas.”

  “I love bananas,” Betsy said. “That is, if you do, Lindy.”

  The wonders of shipboard life extended far beyond fresh fruit. At our first proper meal each table received a menu that offered chicken or fish, potatoes or rice, soup hot or cold, and a choice between pudding and seven flavors of ice cream for dessert.

  “Is this real?” Alice wondered aloud, ladling a third teaspoon of sugar into her tea. “Back home Mum fixed me an egg two mornings a week. Tinned beef for supper…when she could get it.”

  “Too right,” Connor said from the adjoining table of choirboys. “Watch this.” Taking a slice of soft bread he plastered it an inch thick with creamy yellow butter. “Real, too,” he mumbled around a mouth stuffed to overflowing.

  When the meal ended with everyone, including me, replete, an officer climbed a small stage in the dining hall. “I’m Third Officer Browne,” he said, “welcoming you aboard. We’re very glad to have you. And now I’d like to ask some of our special passengers to favor us with a song. The quintet from the Westminster Choir. Please. Will you indulge us?”

  It was impossible for The Four Apostles and Connor to refuse. “What are we going to do?” Tomas whispered to John. “I can hardly breathe.”

  “Only one thing to do,” the leader of the pack returned.

  At a gesture from John, Connor drew his tin whistle with a flourish and played a single, clear note. Then the quintet sang:

  “Praise God from Whom all blessings flow.

  Praise Him all creatures, here below.

  Praise Him above, ye heavenly host.

  Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.

  Amen!”8

  There was a round of applause from the other CORB children and the chaperones. Even Miss Pike looked pleased.

  In all the wonder there was only a single jarring note.

  The last order of business at lunch was for each child and adult to be handed a life vest and instructed in how to put it on. Instructions complete, the children were also informed they must not remove the safety device until told to do so…probably three days’ sail, when Newcastle was well beyond the reach of the U-boat menace.

  “Sleep in them,” Browne ordered sternly. “No exceptions.”

  Later, as the girls and I tried to walk off the effects of the overwhelming meal, we saw how far-reaching was the concern.

  “Look,” Lindy said.

  Robert Snow—Robin Hood—still wore his forest-green cloak, but over it was buckled a forest-green life vest.

  For thus says the Lord: “He who touches you (O Zion) touches the apple of My eye.”

  ZECHARIAH 2:8, PARAPHRASED

  VIENNA, AUSTRIA

  CHRISTMAS EVE, 1937

  It was late afternoon before I boarded the streetcar heading for the Jewish Quarter. In the market squares the booths were empty, the proprietors gone home to their families or back to snug, secure villages like Kitzbühel. How I wish I were there right now, and Papa safely there with me.

  It is the notion that I can somehow help him, rescue him, that drives me. I remember the time I saw Dachau’s walls and imagined the helpless prisoners confined there…never knowing that one of them is my father!

  Darkness fell early this close to the darkest night of the year. It was already enveloping me as I carried Rudy’s violin. I stepped from the streetcar and headed off down a narrow lane toward Leah’s apartment overlooking the Judenplatz.

  In a few windows flickering Hanukkah candles told me of the bravery of those who live within. Fresh paint splotched on exterior walls must be covering Nazi threats and filth.

  When I turned the corner and faced a synagogue, I saw that even tonight of all nights there is no peace on earth, no goodwill toward men. Christ Killers! is painted on the bricks, together with slogans and menacing promises. A large crimson-painted swastika floated in the twilight above the words Jews! Your blood will again run in these streets!

  A statue of the Jewish playwright Ephraim Lessing has been vandalized. The marble fingers were hacked off, and the groin slashed with red paint. Race defilers will be castrated!

  Like Rudy! I wavered in place. Putting my hand to the wall to steady myself, it came away wet with paint, as if with gore.

  I stood too long trying to collect myself, and the delay almost got me killed.

  From many directions at once came shouting waves of Nazi fanatics. “Jews out of Austria,” they bellowed. “Kill the Christ killers,” they yelled. Windows were smashed. Screams of terror and pain filled the night.

  Then they grabbed me. I saw a rock thrown through Leah’s window; then all I could see were boots and angry faces and waving clubs and menacing torches.

  “Teach them a lesson,” a thin-lipped attacker suggested. “Let these Jews know what it’s like to have their women violated.”

  Hands clutched at my clothing, ripped off my shoes, seized the precious violin case. More hands tore my cap from my head.

  “Stop,” someone yelled. “Blond. She’s Aryan.”

  Someone pushed through the lusting mob, throwing men aside and yanking them away from me.

  It was Otto Wattenbarger, the farm boy from our skiing holidays in Kitzbühel. Otto was wearing a Nazi armband. He returned the violin to me. He offered to help me, to protect me. He urged me to stay with him and I would be safe. I shuddered at his touch and refused.

  “Don’t come here again,” he said. “Ever.”

  By now police sirens were blaring. Otto dropped the armband on the street and walked to a waiting trolley.

  I had not known I was crying, nor that I was bleeding from the back of my head, until another streetcar driver asked if I was all right.

  I thought of Otto Wattenbarger and his brother, Franz—how what had come upon us was tearing families, cities, the whole world apart. I remembered the place where Franz had shown me that two snowflakes, identical in every way, could fall mere inches apart. Yet one would melt to flow south into light and warmth while the other would join the black uniforms, the marching rivers of the north.

  The division of families and hearts is that clear…and that permanent.

  8 “Praise God from Whom All Blessings Flow,” doxology by Thomas Ken, 1674, also the last verse of a longer hymn, “Awake, My Soul, and with the Sun”

  11

  LIVERPOOL HARBOR

  AUTUMN 1940

  As we lined the ra
il of the SS Newcastle, Lindy was tucked close against my right elbow and Betsy even closer to her cousin’s side. Beyond Betsy was Angelique, Lindy’s new sister of the soul. On my left were Nan, Alice, and Margaret.

  There were no tears now. It came to me that the children were excited about this adventure. Grief at parting seemed all left behind with the parents and the siblings who were too old or too young to make the journey.

  It had rained overnight, and now the air of the Irish Sea was sun-drenched. Everything from the domes and towers of the Liverpool harbor, to the horde of ships clustering to become Outbound Convoy 217, glowed like burnished copper.

  Lindy, notebook in hand, scribbled images. She pointed to an adjacent freighter weighing anchor a half mile away. “Do you see how sharp its outline seems?” she asked. “It’s like it was painted by an artist with a palette knife. Things sometimes look like that on a bright morning after a rain, don’t they?”

  “Bright and shining,” Betsy contributed.

  “You’re right,” I acknowledged. “And I know another kind of artist. Authors paint with words, and Lindy, the paper is your canvas.”

  Lindy did not argue but instead offered a parallel thought. “And orchestras paint with music, don’t they, Elisa?”

  I felt the sun on my smiling, uptilted cheeks. “When it all comes together, yes. But don’t try to tell that to a conductor when half the horn section is hungover and the percussion section missed the train.”

  The girls laughed, and Lindy jotted something into her notebook.

  As Newcastle moved off toward the northwest, the convoy’s core of a dozen freighters and ocean liners was ringed by four British navy vessels. These long, low, and lean ships looked dangerous, like animated harpoons, as they quested forward and back at twice Newcastle’s speed. One ahead, one behind, and one on either side, they flanked us.