by Bodie Thoene
Outvoted, Orde nodded agreement. The voice in the hall was still shouting for everyone to get to the shelter. The weeping woman had been led away down the stairs.
“We should hurry,” Alfie said. “They will be waiting.”
Orde slipped his shoe over his bandaged foot. Then he reached down to help Lucy to her feet. It was a stranger time to tell her what he wanted to tell her, and yet, maybe there would not be another time.
Jacob and Alfie looked on as he took her face in his hands. This time, for the first time, she did not turn her eyes away from his. He did not speak for a moment as they stood there in the dust and rubble. Alfie was right. He could clearly see the beauty of her broken heart and he knew. Orde knew! He loved this woman!
“I will not leave you,” he whispered. “The Lord has never stopped loving you. He has let me see you, Lucy. Come with me.”
She nodded, still searching his eyes and believing him. She was no longer afraid. No longer ashamed. In that moment she laid her heart in his hands to carry.
The hall outside had grown silent, as had the street below. Orde took her hand in his.
“We should hurry,” Orde said.
“Yes,” Alfie agreed. He was smiling again, that knowing smile. “A long way to go.”
***
Everyone was moving too slowly. David and Samuel got up at their mother’s urging, but they were cranky and belligerent from a long night with little sleep.
Rachel dressed more quickly than her brothers. She took over the job of phoning friends and neighbors with the news that Papa thought it would be better if everyone went ahead to their assigned shelters.
Yes. Yes. The battles seemed very far away. Why should anyone waste time or bombs on the Jewish district? But all the same, send the children on. Gather up your belongings. It was only the first day. Just the first day. A good day to practice in case the conflict should develop into something serious. School could start early for the young ones. It could be held just as easily in the basement of Torah school, where there were sandbags and canned food and water—just in case a bomber should get lost.
David and Samuel, wide awake, were excited by the prospect of a real war. After all, they had been practicing marching in the shade of the elm tree. Now they would really see something!
They dressed as though it were a regular school day. Mama gave them their haversacks and asked Rachel to escort them to the corner, to watch them all the way to the school. There were still phone calls for Mama to make. Things to do. No doubt by the evening more refugees would be coming into Muranow Square.
“We’ll be along in a bit.” Mama kissed the boys lightly. She seemed not at all afraid, and yet her eyes held something in them that cut a cold knife of fear through Rachel’s own heart.
For David and Samuel, walking out into the newly breaking day was an adventure. School chums from all over the district emerged onto Muranow on their way to early school in the air-raid shelter. They hailed one another. They pointed to distant sounds of guns whumping. Such small sounds, they were; it was difficult to believe that they were more than sounds. That men were dying, being blown to little pieces every time a gun cleared its throat.
Rachel was glad nothing had come so close to Muranow! Glad and relieved that all the children were going into the shelter. She was not anxious to join them, because she wanted to look, to watch the fly-sized airplanes climbing high and then falling off to drop their deadly little eggs on some unknown target.
Six-thirty in the morning. Hundreds of children surged around her. She waved good-bye to her brothers on the corner. The excitement was like some sort of game. She was smiling. David and Samuel did not turn around to wave. “I’ll bet the Polish Air Forceis giving them a beating!” David said to his brother.
There was pride in that statement. The Polish Air Force at that moment was their Air Force, protecting the Jewish community.
Rachel turned to go back home. She took three steps and then stopped. Suddenly the air filled with the high, undulating wail of the Warsaw sirens!
What?
All conversation ceased in that instant. Little faced turned upward in confusion. Could this wail be meant for them? For the Jewish Quarter of Warsaw?
Suddenly, as if drawn by the screaming of the sirens, a formation of German planes appeared just at the level of the housetops! How many? Ten? Or maybe fifty? Or a hundred? No! It was only three, but the terrible crooked cross of the swastika was plainly visible on their tail rudders!
Hundreds of screams, the shrill screams of children, rose up, only to be lost in the spinning props of the plane. The roar of engines was deafening!
Rachel stood, rooted with fear on the sidewalk. She could plainly see the features of the pilots. They flew unopposed; no Polish planes pursued them! And they were smiling as they flew overhead.
Then the screams were drowned out by the terrible shriek of the bombs. The children all began to run at once as spouts of pavement erupted behind them and in front of them and beneath them. The bigger ones outran their little brothers and sisters. Rachel screamed and fell to her knees as little Samuel was knocked to the ground. David threw himself over Samuel, kicking back the others who stumbled on in blind terror toward the school. Then little ones struggled to follow the bigger ones, and all of them reached the steps just as the entire building exploded outward, tumbling down on top of the children to betray their belief that someplace was safe for them.
Rachel screamed at the sight of cart-wheeling bodies and tumbling bricks. The dust, the noise, the horror of it made the whole world shake. Sandbags were nothing. Boarded windows simply disintegrated behind the protective covering. Rachel covered her head as a shower of debris rained down and the drone of the engines sped away in search of other targets.
Then came the silence, eerie and dark in its implication. Silence where laughter and excited voices had been a moment before. Silence covering prostrate bodies like the masonry dust. No birds. No more sirens. Rachel heard her own sobs as she peered up through the cloud that covered what had been Muranow Square.
No more children. No more childhood. It vanished forever in that terrible moment.
“God!” she called. Had the bombs also silenced the Almighty? Could three men, three planes, do this? Only three?
Rachel pulled herself to her knees. She raised her hands, imploring the silent heavens to help her stand. To walk forward to look for her brothers.
At that moment, she saw them. They walked . . . stumbled . . . out from the gray cloud of fire and destruction. Hats off. Clothes askew. Their knees and hands were bloody, their faces streaked with tears. But they were alive!
Behind her, Rachel heard other voices. Mothers. Fathers. Running toward the scene, calling out the names of their children!
And then the high, terrible wall of the siren began again, calling those who were left to the shelter of the Community Center.
***
Orde and the others were only five blocks from the Bristol Hotel when the Heinkel raiders struck. The bombs dropped in four installments, lifting the hotel from its foundations. When it came down again, the roof collapsed from the center as the walls puffed out in a weird orange glow of fire and rolling black smoke.
Orde shielded Lucy as debris rained down all around them. He raised his eyes to watch the retreating tails of the planes. No one could have survived the bombing in the shelter of the Bristol. The threatening hiss of escaping gas from the mains made Orde jump to his feet.
Alfie and Jacob were already steps ahead of him. Lucy stumbled after, her head turned back in horror to gape at the remains of the Bristol.
As they ran up the deserted street. Orde could see smoke billowing up from the Jewish district near Muranow Square. Three German bombers scooted away unopposed just above the level of the rooftops.
***
Telephone lines had been installed in Elisa’s suite at the Savoy Hotel. The hope was that Lori’s abductors would ring with ransom terms.
With T
edrick towering in the background, he raised his hand in signal for Elisa to answer when the telephone rang. At the same moment he picked up the extension.
No sinister voice replied to Elisa’s tentative “hello.”
It was Winston Churchill, growling over the lines from Chartwell. “They’ve started, Elisa,” he said gruffly. “The Nazis are bombing Warsaw and Cracow right now.”
Tedrick replied with an unexpected expletive. “Great heavens, Winston! Are you certain?”
“That you, Tedrick? Yes. Certain. Straight from the Polish ambassador a few minutes ago.”
Elisa felt faint. She lowered herself onto the sofa. Bombing Warsaw! Had Murphy made it out? Had he managed to connect up with Orde and the kids?
Winston asked the question that showed that nothing escaped his attention, even as she framed it in her mind. “Have you had word from Murphy in Warsaw?”
“Not yet,” Elisa said in a faltering voice.
“You do not know if he was able to meet Orde?”
“We are praying so.”
“Yes,” the voice drawled in a kindly way. “And as for the young lady? Your cousin Lori?”
Tedrick replied, “No word. No ransom demands. I fully expected that some demands would be linked to the service at St. Paul’s this morning. Perhaps some note, a political statement to be read from the pulpit—possibly by you, Winston.”
“The world, it seems, is run by blackmail and extortion these days,” he replied in a gloomy voice.
“Shall we go ahead with the service, Winston?” Elisa asked painfully.
The answer was definitive. “Yes! By all means in our power! As Hitler explodes his bombs on the churches of Poland, we shall gather to pray before the righteous throne! Can the God of heaven ignore the difference in the way we begin a conflict and the Nazi disregard for heaven? Yes! By all means we shall continue with our plans.” He paused. “I suppose that your father will be on alert, unable to come. But your mother? And Helen Ibsen?”
Tedrick replied again. “We will send a car for them. If there is some demand made, some political statement to be read, perhaps Mrs. Ibsen should be on hand.” He frowned, deep in thought. “The Nazis have not been able to break her husband. It seems logical that this might be a ploy to extract some statement from her. Especially now with the Polish war.”
“Well then—” Churchill sounded satisfied— “Elisa, perhaps you should also consider bringing the boys along. They are young, but not too young to remember the prayers of England on a day such as this. I would like them in the front row as I speak.”
It was a kind thought, made from a great heart. Elisa hung up and immediately telephoned Anna and Helen with the request.
***
Allan Farrell paused beside the statue of Queen Anne that stood just below the steps leading to the grand entrance of St. Paul’s Cathedral. Allan knew very little about the reign of the real Queen Anne, but he hated her memory just the same. After all, was she not depicted as standing above a prostrate Ireland? In the terrorist’s twisted mind, the queen seemed to be smiling spitefully down at the spot where the Gunpowder Plot conspirators had been executed. He vowed to wipe the smile off her face.
He was several hours early for the Remembrance Service, well before the dignitaries and the crowd were due to assemble, but already well into his plan. Allan reached into the leather satchel and extracted a camera that he hung around his neck. Among the contents of the bag were another camera, a light meter, and the radio transmitter, which Allan believed he could pass off as one more piece of camera gear.
Allan had prepared to find a cordon of policemen surrounding the church in response to the news that Poland and Germany were finally at war. The fragile and deceptive calm of the day before had been shown for what it really was: the collectively held breath of all Europe. Now that wishful thinking was shattered.
But there were no policemen surrounding St. Paul’s, no special security measures, no troops patrolling the streets. Despite the fact that the early editions of the papers had announced the start of the war and the mobilization of British troops, it was clear that Britain was still not prepared to have the war on its doorstep. Allan was anxious to prove just how wrong the British were.
Once inside the building, Allan wandered up to the spot directly beneath, the dome where the two arms of the great edifice crossed. He noted with particular interest the placement of the chairs for VIPs in the very front row, just below the pulpit. He also saw the provision of chairs for the musicians, to one side of the south transept. And his thoughts went to the girl tied up high above his head.
“Excuse me, sir,” inquired a wizened little man. “Do you need assistance?”
“I’m a photographer,” announced Allan, holding up the camera. “I’m looking for the best spots from which to take pictures of the proceedings. Sort of scouting the ground before the crowds arrive.”
“Right you are too, sir. Just you let me know if there’s anything you need. We certainly want to have a fine record of the doings here today.”
“We certainly do,” agreed Allan. “Say, there is one thing. I suppose that the dignitaries will be brought in the grand entrance, won’t they?” At the man’s agreement, Allan continued. “Then where would be the best place to get a view of their arrivals? I mean, I’m sure the steps in front will be crowded with onlookers.”
“I’ve got just the thing,” said the old man. “Leave it to me. What you want is the bell tower, just above the entrance. I’ll take you there myself.”
***
The KLM plane refueled in Amsterdam for the return flight to London. Murphy telephoned Elisa with his own list of bad news and was met with a catastrophic roster from her end.
Lori was missing. Elisa had managed to phone Harvey Terrill to send Orde the wire in Warsaw. But Harvey had obviously not gotten through. Now the violin was gone, the passports sent off across war-torn Warsaw in a taxi. Who could tell what was coming in the next few hours?
One bright spot remained. The prayer service at St. Paul’s would continue as planned. If ever the world needs prayer, this is the moment, Murphy thought as he dashed back to the waiting plane.
***
The horse stood a little way apart from the overturned milk and the crumpled body of Dolek the milkman. Cans were upended, mingling milk with the blood of the old man and others. The liquid ran in a pink stream in the gutters as the family of Rabbi Aaron Lubetkin ran with hundreds to the safety of the large shelter under the Community Center.
Rachel hung back as the wail of the useless Warsaw sirens kicked in again. She looked back over her shoulder at the devastation of the square. The linden tree where the birds had built their nests was now an uprooted, shattered mass lying across the churned grass.
Beyond its broken branches, Rachel spotted Peter Wallich’s red hair glistening in the sunlight as he leaped a barricade with a dozen other boys from the Zionist Youth brigade.
One by one they vanished up Niska Street. They did not look back. Rachel knew they were getting out of Warsaw. Warsaw, where they had all come for refuge, was not a safe place to be.
***
It was hot even though the sun was only barely up. Alfie had sweated through his shirt, and Werner was soggy and unhappy against Alfie’s belly as they ran the last two blocks to the TENS office.
The entire building was untouched. For blocks around, the city seemed as perfect and unharmed as it had last week, and for years before that. Except for the distant sounds of exploding shells and the smell of the smoke, it was impossible to tell that there was a war on.
Peter Wallich stood impatient in the sun, his red hair covered with plaster dust. His clothes were a uniform shade of gray. There were a dozen other boys his age with him, also coated with dust. Their appearance indicated that they had been near the explosions in the Jewish district.
Peter stared up anxiously into the sky. One of his companions spotted Orde and the others approaching and tugged his sleeve. Peter looked
at them and then, as if all powered by the same thought, they ran in a bunch to surround Orde and Lucy, Jacob and Alfie.
Talking at once, they recited where they had been when the first bombs fell.
Then the questions tumbled out from every mouth. “What is happening?”
“Are the Poles fighting?”
“Should we stay and fight?”
“Should we leave Warsaw?”
These were the young men scheduled to slip out of Poland in two days. The diving of the Heinkels may have moved their schedule up somewhat.
Orde pushed through them, his hands raised in an attempt to silence the chatter. Did they see the plaster dust on his hair, the cut above Lucy’s eye?
Orde dug into his pocket for his keys. He patted each pocket. No keys anywhere. No matter. He gave the glass pane in the door a little kick and let the glass tinkle to the ground and then he reached in and opened the door. As the group bunched up behind him in the entrance, he halted, stooped, and picked up something.
Beneath the broken glass lay a violin case. A strange thing, indeed, to find resting on the doormat of a news office. Left by an itinerant musician in panic, perhaps, as he fled the roaring of the bombs?
The address of the TENS office was tucked into the battered handle. Orde shook the case. He smiled and entered the office.
***
By the time Murphy’s KLM flight landed in England, both his clothes and his thoughts were rumpled, and he was in need of a shave. His mouth felt as if the soles of Wehrmacht boots had tramped through it.
Just as they are tramping through Poland right now, he reflected. Somewhere over the English Channel the KLM pilot had picked up a BBC broadcast and relayed it to his passengers. Since before dawn, German planes had been bombing Polish towns, and German tanks were advancing on four fronts into Polish territory.
It had all apparently started with some action involving an unknown village named Gleiwitz, but that fact seemed unimportant. The war, long expected and feared, had begun.
