by Bodie Thoene
“Where I’m from,” Mariah said, “we calls it a ‘fiddle.’ But I’ll be takin’ good care of it for you, Elisa darlin’. Now Connor, my dear. Are you ready with your fine Irish whistle thing?”
And the two sailed into an instrumental duet of “Whiskey in the Jar.” Of course by now all my music students knew the lyrics by heart and all joined in on the chorus.
Captain Doyle thumped his meaty hand on the table in time with the music. On the third “Musha rig um du ruma da,” he opened his mouth to join in singing, caught a glare from La Pike that would have done credit to Medusa, and nearly drowned himself while downing a glass of water to cover his embarrassment.
Cedric Barrett leaned across the table. “I believe it was Dickens who wrote, ‘One may as well be hung for stealing a horse as for a pig’…or something to that effect,” whereupon Barrett added his own unexpectedly precise tenor to the chorus.
Fearing Miss Pike might be on the verge of apoplexy, Mariah ushered in Lindy, Angel, and Betsy. With my violin again as accompaniment, the trio gave a very sweet rendition of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.”
Miss Pike’s hue had returned from black to merely ochre as other relatively tame acts followed. Different groups of my music students sang ballads and popular contemporary numbers.
All too soon it was time for the grand finale.
At Mariah’s direction the lights in the hall were doused. The Four Apostles, holding electric torches borrowed from the ship’s emergency equipment, focused them on a side door as a makeshift spotlight.
The first actor to appear, blinking in the light, was Yael, followed by Simcha, Angel, and finally Raquel. The chuckle that began for the littlest cast member increased to a chortle, then to a guffaw, and finally to a full-on, gasping-for-breath explosion of laughter.
Each female was attired in robes made of the floral print bedspreads borrowed from their cabins.
But it was the headgear that provoked the greatest reaction.
Each performer wore a turban made from a towel to which was attached oranges, bananas, mangos, and, best of all, atop Raquel’s head…a pineapple.
As Pablo leapt upright and began to strum his guitar the girls sang:
“I yi yi yi yi I like you very much.
I yi yi yi yi I think you’re grand.
Why, why, why is it that when I feel your touch,
My heart starts to beat, to beat the band?”
This much of the performance was probably already sufficient to get us hung as horse thieves in Miss Pike’s opinion, but Raquel had only begun.
Swaying and singing, Raquel’s little troupe encircled Miss Pike’s table. As Raquel passed Captain Doyle, she extended her hand for him to join her…and he accepted!
“I yi yi yi yi I like you to hold me tight.
You are too too too too too divine.
If you want to be in someone’s arms tonight,
Just be sure the arms you’re in are mine.”11
What started with Raquel, the girls, the captain, Cedric Barrett, and me soon picked up another hundred members as the conga line bumped and thumped around the room to the strains of I yi yi yi yi I like you very much!
Before long the human chain included everyone except Podlaski and Miss Pike, leaving her forced to endure his cigar smoke.
“Boffo!” MGM executive Snow pronounced as he juggled Robin Hood atop his shoulders.
From every doorway and passage, turbaned heads appeared. It seemed all the lascars on the ship had to find out what the crazy passengers were up to. It was like having pink and blue and yellow chrysanthemum blossoms festoon every entry!
Connor beamed. “Best birthday, ever,” he shouted as we passed each other in a writhing loop of dancers. “Absolutely tops!”
“See you in the mornin’, me darlin’ girl.” Mariah grinned over her shoulder. “Remember, in Ireland we believe you’re never too old t’ learn a new tune!”
I laughed and raised my hand in surrender, deciding I would practice English vocabulary by singing in imitation of Mariah’s lyrical Irish accent. And if I couldn’t sing like Mariah, at least I would learn to dance and play the Irish fiddle like a true Celt.
I softly sang “Whiskey in the Jar” as I descended the steep stairs to C deck and the children’s quarters.
Oddly, with the naval convoy ships gone, I had an increased sense of security. Surely we were out of harm’s way by now, beyond the territory of German U-boats. By the time we reached New York harbor I vowed I would be playing a duet with Mariah as we sailed past the Statue of Liberty.
A few paces down the corridor the door to the boys’ cabin swung open and Connor stuck his head out. Sunburned ears poked out from tousled hair. In spite of the late hour he was fully dressed except for shoes. “Halt! Who goes there?” His cheeks were ruddy from wind and from joy. His tie was askew. “Oh! It’s you singing.” He grinned and turned to the Apostles. “Never mind. It’s only Missus Murphy!” A cheer rose up from his bunkmates.
“Still celebrating?” I paused before the door festooned with handmade birthday greetings and crayon drawings of Connor in the midst of ships and sharks and sailors.
“We were afraid you was Mizz Pike coming down the hallway. She’s all about curfews, and such, don’t you know?”
John called from the top bunk, “We’ll not let her pass without a song!”
James seconded his elder brother’s declaration.
Tomas cried, “A song! A song!”
Peter rubbed his cheek with his pale hand, then raised a finger for emphasis as he stuttered, “S–s–sing!”
I laughed and began my tune with the second verse.
“I went into me chamber, all for to take a slumber,
I dreamt of gold and jewels and for sure it was no wonder.
But Jenny took my charges and filled them up with water,
Then sent for Captain Farrell to be ready for the slaughter.”
The boys joined me in the chorus:
“Musha rig um du ruma da,
Whack for the daddy-o,
Whack for the daddy-o,
There’s whiskey in the jar.”
We finished in perfect harmony and with a burst of applause and laughter that stirred the sleeping passengers of C deck.
“Will that do?” I curtsied.
Connor tapped his forehead, offering me a gallant salute. “Proceed, my lady.”
I mussed his hair, though who could tell? “I hope you had a lovely day, Connor.” Stooping, I kissed the top of his head. “A birthday kiss from your mother.”
“She kissed ’im!” Tomas chortled.
“Ohhhh, Connor!” John teased.
“Did’ja see that?” James pushed his glasses up on his nose and howled.
Peter gave a wolf whistle.
The boys roared as Connor rolled his eyes and slammed the door in my face. Howls of glee, hoots, and catcalls followed me as I made my way down the hall.
Miss Pike, scowling and fierce in her purple plaid flannel dressing gown, emerged from her cabin and planted herself in the center of the corridor. Frizzy gray hair escaped in wild wisps from a frayed white night cap. Hands on broad hips, she blocked my path. Thick eyeglasses perched on her sharp nose. Lenses magnified pale, disapproving eyes.
“Good evening,” I chirped, looking beyond her.
“Whiskey in the jar-o? What’s all that, then? What are they up to?”
“The birthday.”
“Past curfew!” she snapped.
“You know boys.”
“I certainly do. Unruly. Incorrigible…”
I defended joy with a smile. “An eighth birthday aboard an ocean liner only comes once in a lifetime.”
She made as if to storm the boys’ quarters, but now it was I who blocked her path.
Her thin lips turned down at the corners. “Missus Murphy. Perhaps where you come from such antics after curfew are acceptable. But not among the English.”
“Where I come from people are being arreste
d and imprisoned for breaking curfew. Let them celebrate, Miss Pike. They are only children…far from their families. For a very long time their world has been a hard place. A little fun can’t hurt.”
“Are we to set aside order for frivolity?”
I opened my mouth to reply.
My thoughts were suddenly shattered. The ship shuddered. A heavy, muffled thud was accompanied by the sounds of crashing glass and splintering woodwork. The lights went out. I was thrown against the wall and then to the floor.
“Torpedo!” I cried, knowing instantly what had happened.
Miss Pike had fallen near me. “Oh! We’re hit! We’re hit!”
The screams of children penetrated cabin doors. A succession of booms followed as I groped for some handhold by which I could pull myself up.
“Are you hurt?” I called to Miss Pike.
She breathed, “The Hun! The Hun has found us, I fear, Missus Murphy.”
“We must…we must…the children! Lifeboat stations!”
“My glasses. Where are my glasses?”
The space was lit by a dim orange glow. Fires in the belly of the vessel? The corridor was cluttered with debris from wood paneling and shattered wall sconces. Yet strangely, Miss Pike’s thick spectacles remained solidly in place on her nose. Blood streamed down her face and into her eyes from a nasty gash on her scalp. She did not attempt to rise.
“You’re bleeding,” I said.
“I’m bleeding,” she repeated, touching her cheek. She peered closely at her hand to examine the blood. “Torpedo. Yes,” she muttered in quiet amazement, as if the weapon had been personally aimed at her.
In those first few seconds I was certain the Nazis had scored a mortal blow against the Newcastle. The blast seemed to be directly beneath us. “The children! Miss Pike, we must…must…see to our children! Are you able, dear woman?”
She croaked a command. “Help me up, Elisa.”
I heard Miss Pike’s girls weeping and calling out to one another behind the door as I helped her stand. “Miss Pike, get them to the lifeboat station. Life vests, Miss Pike! They’ll need warm coats. Shoes,” I commanded as I left her.
Her gruff voice, though a trifle slurred, cut through the sobs with no-nonsense orders, and the whimpering ceased.
With a sense of dread, I pushed my way through the wreckage toward my stateroom. Water lapped my feet. Though all was dark where I stood, the farther reaches of the hallway were bathed in amber light. Was the ship burning and sinking at the same time?
Let the groans of the prisoners come before You; according to Your great power, preserve those doomed to die!
PSALM 79:11 ESV
WRITTEN IN PRAGUE, CZECHOSLOVAKIA
ABOUT TRIP TO MUNICH, GERMANY
JANUARY 3, 1938
In the last few days I have been to Germany again, God help me! The American John Murphy once told me that a woman is like tea. She will never know how strong she is until she is in hot water.
When next I see him, I wonder if he will know that I am in hot water over the neck now. God must make me strong.
Before the New Year I traveled to Germany as Elisa Linder, but now as a mother. With me were passports for two Jewish children described as Maxmillian and Celeste Linder, “my” two-year-old son and infant daughter. I was given the cover story of being a perfectly Aryan German, raised in Prague, coming to Munich on a sightseeing tour.
This very credible background was almost my undoing. A Nazi officer accosted me and asked if it was true I was Czech. I explained my German heritage, which he believed, whereupon he asked me for help.
It seems an elderly Czech man, who spoke no German, could not make himself understood to the increasingly impatient guards. I was asked to translate.
It was a frightening moment. I knew a native Czech speaker would see through my imposture. I could only pray he would be as sensitive to my plight as I was to his.
Thanks be to God, he was!
But even when that interview came to a successful conclusion, my dilemma was only beginning.
The German officer asked if I were alone in Munich. If this was some elaborate trap, I didn’t want to implicate anyone else, so I said yes.
He asked to take me out to dinner! How could I refuse a member of the Gestapo?
My mouth was able to speak more heroically than my heart felt. “Oh, yes,” I said. “I’d love to see the beer hall where the Hitler revolution began.”
The Oberleutnant, who insisted I call him Alfred, took me into a world of thumping steins and pounding polka music, papered thickly with Nazi banners. The agent offered to teach me the Nazi drinking songs. As he said, “Soon you’ll be singing them in Prague, yes? One People! One Nation! One Führer, eh?”
All the time I was keeping the forced smile plastered on my face I kept wondering if this was one of the men who had interrogated my father. Was his preferred method of persuasion the rubber hose, the bare fist, or electric shocks?
And still I could not escape.
Instead of driving me to my hotel when we left the beer hall, he piloted the staff car into the countryside. I was more afraid than ever.
Then he parked on a hillside overlooking a brightly lit compound surrounded by barbed wire and guard towers.
It was Dachau.
My companion was proud of his work. “They die quite easily here,” he said, his words slurred with too much drink. “The Greater Reich will be cleansed of all the Untermenschen.”
I heard the savage barking of guard dogs and the rip of machine-gun fire. The Gestapo officer snickered. “Sometimes they kill themselves by crossing into the dead zone on purpose.”
Papa, I thought. Oh, Papa!
My night of horrors ended at last because my companion had to catch an early train to Berlin. I let him think I had been inspired by the Nazi vision of the future by asking him to return me to the beer hall.
From there I could get a taxi to a hotel without revealing my destination to the Gestapo.
“Perhaps I’ll see you in Prague,” he suggested.
“Thank you for showing me what to expect,” I said.
He kissed me. I kept the violin case between us as a shield. He saluted and drove away.
I became violently ill moments later.
The next morning I went to Munich’s Marienplatz. With hundreds of other visitors I watched the famous animated figures on the clock tower perform their mechanical dance steps.
When I left the square I had three things I did not possess when I entered it: two small children in a covered pram…and the memory of a father’s anguished face watching his children leave him, perhaps forever.
The children slept on the train ride from Munich to Prague. Dosed with cough medicine, they slumbered deeply. There was no danger at the border crossing.
It was a good thing. My heart sick for my father and my country, I have no heroism or cleverness left.
10 “Oh, Ain’t We Crazy!” attributed to Harry McClintock, aka “Haywire Mac”
11 “I Yi, Yi, Yi, Yi” (I like you very much) lyrics by Mack Gordon, music by Harry Warren
13
DEAD IN THE WATER
NORTH ATLANTIC
AUTUMN 1940
My eyes adjusted to the darkness. I discovered to my relief the orange flickers were not from a fire but from dimly glowing emergency lamps. In the days spent aboard the Newcastle I had never noticed them before this moment. Grateful for the faint illumination they provided, I knew how terrifying and bewildering those corridors would have seemed in the utter darkness of a cloudy North Atlantic night.
Newcastle’s deck had an almost imperceptible downhill slope and a slight lean to the right as I staggered forward.
The ship still surged serenely onward. Our speed though the water did not slacken. I felt reassured. Was my first panicked reaction overblown? I took a deep breath and forced myself to calm down. My thoughts raced. Maybe Newcastle isn’t sinking, not at all! The water around my ankles must be from a broken p
ipe. Of course the children are frightened. Oh, Jesus! I’m frightened! Who wouldn’t be?
I prayed in that moment that my job was reassurance, not rescue.
Ahead the hallway curved outward before straightening again. I remembered my cabin was just beyond that bend. A few more paces and I would have my life vest securely belted on and could round up my young charges. Like a drill, I would tell them. Part of the adventure.
After six more steps my progress came to an abrupt halt. The passageway was blocked. The outer wall bowed inward; the floor buckled upwards. What remained of the corridor was jammed with fallen ceiling and splintered wood paneling.
My lips tightened with anger and determination to reach my cabin. Irrationally, I thought of the pendant watch Murphy had given me for my last birthday. His picture was inside the cover, as was the baby’s. The watch lay on the night table in my cabin, and I meant to get it.
Seizing a chunk of paneling, I wrenched it free and tossed it behind me. A bit of ceiling tile followed, and some mahogany molding. A length of pipe frustrated me for a moment, but I managed to bend it out of the way.
I grasped a piece of jagged metal. The serrated edge sliced my palm when I tried to yank it free. Winding a pocket handkerchief around the wound, I concentrated on removing the trash blocking the inboard side of the hall. Though only half the height of the passage was clear, I managed to open a space wide enough for me to advance.
I don’t know what made me poke my head into the opening. It would have been sensible and much easier to extend my foot through first.
What greeted my gaze beyond the wreckage was a void—a featureless emptiness that fell away into a pool of water and was open to the sea beyond. Waves lapped at the edges of the hole. White foam outlined the ragged remains of what had moments before been Newcastle’s smooth steel skin.
Where the corridor had been, where my cabin had been, and the one beyond that, and the rooms of the decks below mine, was now a gaping hole. If I had stepped unknowingly through that crevice, I would certainly have crossed the threshold between this world and the next. I struggled to reconcile the conflicting images. Behind me was the carpeted hallway of a comfortable passenger liner. Ahead was a crater resembling the wound left when a Nazi bomb shattered a block of London flats.
