by Bodie Thoene
“It will all have to be approved by Congress, of course.” Ickes frowned at the thought, then grinned. “The most vocal opposition we have are those biddies whose forefathers came over on the Mayflower. As far as they are concerned, settlement of the new world should have stopped with Plymouth Rock. Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty should be blown up.” He leaned forward. There was a twinkle in his eye. “But Alaska is the most enormous untapped wealth at our fingertips, and no one wants to live there.”
“Except people with no place else to go.” Cantor seemed pleased at the thought. The America-first crowd would certainly not be able to protest such a move.
“It is only a beginning, of course,” Ickes was quick to explain. “We were considering that applicants would agree to stay and work in Alaska for five years before they would be able to reapply for settlement inside the United States.” He spread his hands as if to invite opinion.
Cantor rolled his eyes and clapped Ickes on the back. “So this is how the secretary of the interior spends his honeymoon?”
Ickes shrugged off the jibe. He looked at Murphy, hoping for a positive response from this one member of the press.
“How long until such a plan could be in operation?” Murphy asked, the vision of the Darien fresh in his mind.
“It will have to go through Congress, Mr. Murphy. I am only one man.” He hesitated. “A year. Possibly two. We cannot simply dump people in such a hostile land without some preparation.” He sighed, wishing that there were more he could offer, some hope for those onboard the Darien. But there was nothing more. “Time—”
“Time is an enemy to these people, Mr. Ickes. They have run out of time.”
“President Roosevelt senses that. I believe that is why he has called the Evian Conference. Out of representatives from thirty-three nations, we should find room for the refugees.” He raised his eyebrows in a gesture that seemed to express both hope and approval. “It is a beginning, at any rate. A place to hang our hat.”
“Thirty-three countries,” Cantor added. “Civilized men. Even the thought of such a humanitarian meeting must make Hitler tremble.”
20
The Captor
Whenever he heard footsteps approaching, Charles looked up hopefully. When he saw that it was not Murphy coming for him, he ducked his head again and hid his mouth. He wished he had not run so far. If he had simply hidden on the same deck as the playroom, Murphy might have found him more easily. Now Charles was not even certain what deck he was on.
The thick-soled black shoes of an old woman approached. Charles looked away in disappointment as the hem of a black skirt passed by. Then the sound of footsteps hesitated and turned around.
“Charles? Oy gevalt! Is that you, Charles Kronenberger? Come out of the shadows so an old woman can see!”
Charles stood slowly and stepped out to face the old lady who had sat beside them at breakfast. Mrs. Rosenfelt. She looked much better than she had when she told Murphy all about her family. She was smiling now. A very kind smile as she unwound her black silk scarf and draped it around Charles’ shoulders. “Terribly windy out today. Such a wind! Did it steal your scarf? Use mine.” She stepped nearer. He did not look at her face now, only the strange little eyeglasses that dangled from a cord.
She gently lifted his chin and spoke in the familiar dialect of Hamburg. So much like Father’s words. And Mommy too, I think.
“Well, Charles, did you eat your candy yet?”
Charles blinked at her. He reached his arms up to her and she held him in a quick hug. He let tears come. He was so glad she had come by. He wished he could tell her—
“This is such a very big boat,” said Bubbe Rosenfelt. “I was quite lost, but now I know my way around. Our cabins are near to each other. Would you like to walk with me?”
***
Murphy had just finished the story when the door of the stateroom opened slowly.
When he saw Mrs. Rosenfelt standing in the doorway with Charles beside her, he jumped up frowning. “Charles!”
“Mr. Murphy, you are busy I see. I just was seeing Charles home and I will not bother you.”
“Come in.” Murphy stood and offered her a chair. He looked at Charles. “I thought you were in the playroom. Are you okay, kid? I mean, you could have—” Murphy’s shoulders sagged as he considered the horrible possibilities.
There was an awkward silence. Charles could not explain, and Mrs. Rosenfelt had not known how he became lost.
Just then the nurse appeared behind Mrs. Rosenfelt in the doorway. “Mr. Murphy!” she said breathlessly. “I’ve been looking everywhere! He just ran out, and it’s such a big ship. I tried to find him, but—oh Mr. Murphy,” she finished in a rush, “I won’t lose my job over this, will I? I mean, you won’t tell—”
Murphy shook his head, still confused. “No, it’s all right. No harm done, I guess.”
Obviously relieved, the nurse disappeared as suddenly as she had appeared. Bubbe Rosenfelt looked down at Charles and put a hand gently on his shoulder.
“He did not like it so much there. Oy! Such a big boy should not be penned up in the playroom with little children!” She paused and studied him. In her soft Hamburg accent she asked him, “Would you like to spend some time with me, Charles? While Mr. Murphy works, I would very much like to play shuffleboard.”
Charles nodded eagerly. He had found a friend.
Murphy looked up and saw Bubbe Rosenfelt smiling down at Charles. She, certainly, was harmless enough. And he did need to get his story in. “Would you like to go, Charles?”
They boy nodded vigorously.
“Well, I wouldn’t want to impose—”
“Impose! You think I don’t know a little something about boys? I raised two myself. I would enjoy the company of a young man from Hamburg!”
Murphy dashed off to file his story and Charles joined Bubbe Rosenfelt on the shuffleboard court.
***
Two days passed and still Elisa had not seen anyone. Three times a day meals were slipped through a small metal slot at the bottom of the door while she shouted demands for an explanation. No one answered her except to ask for the empty tray of the previous meal. Apparently there was to be no explanation.
She had a sense that she was being watched. She rigged a curtain in the corner using her blanket and two loose springs she’d taken from her cot. With the heel of her shoe she hammered the springs into the crumbling mortar, then asked for another blanket, soap, and a towel. Those items were silently slipped into the room along with the next meal.
The newspapers which had been stacked beside the door that first long night now became a source of relief from the racking boredom of solitary confinement. The publications and periodicals were, without exception, American. They included issues of newspapers such as the Detroit Daily Times and the Chicago Tribune, as well as a sampling of minor publications from everywhere in the country.
Elisa read them at first only hoping to keep her sanity. Later as she scanned the pages fearfully, she saw that there was a similarity in each publication. They were American, and yet they were not from the same America that Murphy had told her about. They were American, and yet they spoke of the country in the same way Hitler had spoken about Germany! Names she had heard from Murphy were splashed across the front pages of the nation’s major newspapers. Famous people she had heard of before were associated with groups called America First, German-American Bund, and Christian Front.
Beneath these banners Elisa read words that made her tremble.
America must join the trend toward fascism as a member of world momentum. America may undergo a brief bath of violence, but it will be the same cleansing bath that awakened Italy, that awakened Spain, that awakened Germany. It will awaken thousands of Americans to a realization of menace. Let us understand that if civil war comes to this country it will not be a war to overthrow the American government, but to overthrow the Jewish usurpers who have seized the government and thought to make it a bra
nch of Moscow!
Now, if ever, the sons of Jacob must take a last desperate gamble and find out if they can actually seize the government of the country before the vigilante storm breaks and a major part of the seven million Yiddishers who have managed to get into this country are slated for deportation—or worse!
Here were the writings of an American priest named Father Coughlin who claimed that the Jews wanted war and profited from war. The government of the Czechs was castigated. The cause of isolationism was championed. The cry was sent out in dozens of American newspapers to close off all immigration to the dreaded Jews.
From early morning until the last rays of evening, Elisa pored over the newspapers. The latest showed a photo of the Detroit auto maker Henry Ford shaking hands with Adolf Hitler. Yet another showed a smiling, boyish Charles Lindbergh wearing his German medal and looking very pleased as he stood between Goebbels and Göring at an airfield.
One article in The New York Times compared the quotations of Father Coughlin and Goebbels about the Jews. The quotations were identical. Yet another showed members of the Christian Front parading in their brown shirts and carrying swastika banners.
Elisa shook with the cold of fear by the time she finished reading. These were the voices of hatred even in the beloved Promised Land Murphy had told her about. What difference would it make for a man like her father if they obtained visas to America? The hatred of Jews was just as strong there as anywhere.
She shuddered again as she read the pages of a newspaper published in Arlington, Virginia. Arlington? Hadn’t Murphy told her that was across the river from the nation’s capital?
Rich Jews have hired big buck niggers to attack white women. These Jews give the niggers plenty of money and tell them to go after the white women. Yes, these fellows down there are going to kill every Jew in their section of the South. Doesn’t sound very nice, does it? Call it a pogrom if you want to, but it is the language the Jews understand. The Jews, you see, are guilty of sex crimes just like the niggers. I don’t see any way out except a pogrom. We have got to kill the Jews!
The floor of her cell was littered with the refuse of her dreams. She let this final scrap fall to the heap. Her food remained untouched beside the slot in the door. She stood slowly and gazed fiercely at the lock.
“What do you want with me?” she shouted. “What do you want? What?”
Her head throbbed from the force of the question. Sobbing, she sank back to the cot. For two days and nights the question had tormented her. “What do they want? Why have they brought me here?” she cried softly. What use is all of this? she asked herself as she stared miserably at the scattered papers. “All right!” she screamed again. “I understand! They are even there! They hate us even in the Promised Land! What has that to do with me? Tell me! Tell me, and I will listen!”
And so, she was broken. There was a message there that she could hear but not understand. It was a message of hatred and fear that spoke of civil war and the murder of Jews. She had grown to womanhood in the midst of such a message. It had almost destroyed her life. Had she not been on the very brink of better times? Must the message of hatred invade her soul again?
With this darkness fresh upon her mind, Elisa wept softly until at last she fell asleep.
***
The theft of copies of John Murphy’s telegrams from the file of the Queen Mary’s radio room had been a simple matter for Hans Erb.
All the information that had passed between Murphy and his wayward wife was easily coded and relayed by wire back to Berlin. In the basement offices of the Gestapo, those pertinent facts had been decoded and passed immediately to Himmler who relayed them to Georg Wand before he boarded the Lufthansa passenger plane bound for London.
Fainting spell caused by influenza Stop Returned to Savoy Hotel London Stop Doctor says possibly two weeks bedrest Stop Will rebook on Queen and join you in New York Stop Love Elisa
Pure misery without you Stop Filling hours with work and thoughts of you Stop I will be waiting on dock Stop Love Murphy
The handful of other transmissions were much the same. If, indeed, Elisa Murphy were at the Savoy Hotel and the wires were not some screen, then the matter of finding her would be simple.
Georg Wand arrived in London before the Queen Mary had come within view of the shores of America. Thus, he began an assignment that he anticipated enjoying very much.
Beyond the discovery of the whereabouts of Elisa Linder-Murphy, the activities of John Murphy had proved to be a gold mine of anti-Nazi actions. His conversation with the U.S. secretary of the interior in the first-class lounge was duly reported. The information was promptly relayed to Goebbels, then retransmitted back across the Atlantic to the American leader of the Nazi party, Fritz Kuhn, and then through other channels to the great voice of American anti-Semitism and isolationism, Father Coughlin.
As head of the Gestapo and the most active promoter of purity in the Aryan race, Himmler himself was fascinated by the very visible presence of the mutant Charles Kronenberger with John Murphy. What sort of propaganda would the Americans create with the little monster? he wondered. And would it still be to the advantage of the Reich to eliminate the child? Where was the twin brother, and why had he not also come to America? Had Louis remained in London with Elisa?
These unsettling matters were consigned to a file that would remain on the desk of Himmler until they were resolved on both sides of the Atlantic. He hesitated to present the matter to the Führer until then.
***
The rattle of keys sounded outside the door. Elisa opened her eyes as a lightbulb flared to life above her. Her head still throbbed, and she shielded her eyes against the glare as the door swung open with a crash.
A very large man stood at the threshold and nudged the untouched meal tray with the toe of his shoe. The bulk of his body pulled at the seams and buttons of his pin-striped business suit. He was at least six foot three and could not have weighed less than three hundred pounds. He had heavy eyebrows and a thick mustache beneath a prominent nose. Crossing his arms, he simply stared at Elisa and waited for her to speak.
The springs of the cot groaned as Elisa stood to face the man. “How dare you!” she whispered hoarsely. Anger and indignation replaced all caution.
He cleared his throat, then addressed her as if he were the night clerk at the Savoy. “Your stay has not been unpleasant, I trust.” A hint of arrogance and amusement crossed his face.
“In Germany one could expect such disregard of personal rights! But here!”
“You should know about that. You speak very good English for a citizen of the Reich.” The fat man waved away her fury like an annoying insect. “Excellent English, Miss Linder.”
“My married name is Elisa Murphy. I hold an American passport.”
“Meaningless, I assure you.” He smiled now, confident in his role of captor.
“Call the American consulate if you dare. Hoodlums! You cannot hold me.”
“We have already contacted our American friends. This wedding ceremony you cling to so solidly was a sham. It seems the fellow who conducted it was simply not qualified. He has been reprimanded and demoted, of course. Shipped back to the States. But your passport is invalid.”
“I do not believe you!” Elisa snapped. “And what does any of that have to do with this—” She swept her hand over the debris of the newspapers on the concrete. “Who are you and why—”
“Patience, Miss Linder.” He nodded and she fell to a smoldering silence as he took a step nearer.
“I am no citizen of the Reich!” she spat.
“Oh?” He circled her once. “Ah, yes, you held a Czech passport. I remember now.”
“What do you want?” Her voice was shaking in spite of her attempt to control it. “Has this . . . is this something about my passport? Please, where is my husband?”
“You are not married, Miss Linder, as I explained to you. As for John Murphy, he should be in New York by tomorrow night. We have explained
your whereabouts to him and he is not unduly alarmed,” the fat man whined in a patronizing voice.
“Please—” Elisa sat down on the cot. She could not think anymore. Could not find the strength to fight. “If you will contact John Murphy, he will explain everything.”
“You mean about your need for an American passport in your work for the underground?” he probed.
Deny everything, Elisa! Deny everything that might be harmful! Had that not been the first rule! Elisa lifted her chin defiantly. “I do not know what you are talking about. If my husband and I were misled by a false clerk in the American Embassy, that is one thing. I can tell you nothing about any underground.”
The fat man laughed heartily. “Very good! Very good, indeed! If that is the case, then you might explain how it is you knew about an impending assassination attempt on the life of the Czech president?”
Elisa did not answer. She focused her eyes on the black and white newsprint of the Chicago Tribune. The big man waited patiently.
“A very interesting question, eh, Miss Linder?” he said at last. “You will have to think very hard before you come up with an adequate explanation for that.”
“I owe you no explanation. It is you who must explain to me! Why have you detained me? Who are you? What right do you have—” She was shouting again. “This is England! Where is your warrant?”
“There are times even civilized men dispense with such bothers.” He bowed slightly. “I assure you we have our reasons.”
“My husband is a journalist. When he learns the truth of this—”
“He won’t. It is quite a simple matter. We have taken care of it.”
“You are Gestapo, are you not?” she asked in German.
The man roared, his huge frame shaking. “Gestapo? No, indeed. No, my dear!”
“You might as well be.”
“I cannot believe you mean that. You cannot tell the difference in the way you have been treated? Good meals from the pub. Soap and towels and reading material.”
