Munich Signature (Zion Covenant)

by Bodie Thoene

  “Are you aware that there are sixty-six bills before Congress to limit immigration?” the sobering question was asked.

  Mrs. Rosenfelt cleared her throat. “Such bills, if passed, will be paid in human life—by the suffering of millions, by children like my grandchildren and great-grandchildren.” And as the weight of her words was pressed from pens to notepads, she smiled. It was the smile of a grandmother. “Would you like to see their photographs? I have them. Yes. Right here.” She pulled half a dozen snapshots from her new handbag. “Here are Maria and Klaus. And their little ones—Trudy, Katrina, Gretchen, Louise. And this—this littlest—is my heart, Ada-Marie. You should interview her when she comes to NewYork!”

  Much laughter. Typical grandmother. Pictures and everything. There was a murmur of questions. Could copies be made of the photos for publication? Trump answered that soon enough the kids would be in the harbor, and a photo session could be arranged.

  “What does the State Department say about bypassing the quotas for the Darien’s passengers?” The question seemed harsh after seeing the photos of the children. But it was the issue after all—it was reality.

  “The State Department—Secretary Hull and Undersecretary Wells—have not yet responded to the petition about my family or the other refugees onboard the ship.”

  “Will the Darien be allowed to stay in New York Harbor until the issue is decided?”

  Mrs. Rosenfelt frowned a bit at that one. She glanced at Murphy for help, and answered, “In the absence of any word to the contrary, we are hopeful that the harbor authorities will be allowed to be hospitable.”

  So. It wasn’t settled yet. But who would protest the anchoring of a freighter full of desperate people? With that question bobbing around the room, the next question seemed to be, “Who beat you up, Murphy? If there is no opposition to this, why were you clobbered?”

  Murphy waved away the question. He did not want to be any part of the focus this afternoon. “I owe a couple of guys money from a poker game.” His colleagues laughed good-naturedly. He had fended them off. No. There was no opposition or protest against the refugees.

  “Mrs. Rosenfelt, how do you feel about the upcoming Evian Refugee Conference?”

  “God bless President Roosevelt! Thirty-three countries should be able to decide how to help, nu? There will be doors opened for many like my own dear family by this conference. These are good men who will think of others. Yes. This is a very good idea! Tell the president I think so, will you?”

  What a woman! Tell the president! Just then the telephone rang, the phone call they had all been waiting for. There was silence as old man Trump picked up the receiver.

  “Trump here . . . yes. Yes. Thank you.” It was that simple. He hung up the phone and leaned to whisper to Mrs. Rosenfelt. It was a whisper loud enough for the reporters to hear. “The Darien has just passed Sandy Hook Lighthouse. We should leave for the pier now.”

  ***

  Shimon stood at the rail of the Darien with the others. The sulfur-yellow sun was sinking behind the immense bulk that was America. The swelling tide had turned to carry the freighter easily up the estuary toward the harbor.

  This should have been a moment of joy. But it was not.

  “Tell them we are here,” Shimon instructed Aaron. “They should know that we have arrived in America.”

  Aaron nodded silently. His face reflected the agony in every heart onboard the Darien. Thirty minutes before, as the Atlantic waves dashed themselves against the jutting spur of purple rock, the whispered word had swept through them. Hope had shattered like the waters, and then had receded into the low, undulating moan of collective grief.

  “Ada-Marie is no longer with us. The soul of Ada-Marie has flown away. Ada-Marie is dead . . . is dead . . . is dead. . . .”

  The words were repeated on every mouth as if it must be said in order to be comprehended. “Could this be? So close to New York? We are so close . . . if only . . . if only . . . ”

  Two hours before, the sisters had been called below with Klaus and Maria. The family had not come up yet. The rabbi of Nuremberg was with them when Dr. Freund had climbed wearily to the upper deck and shook his head in silent confirmation of tragedy.

  As the great green statue of Liberty loomed ahead of them, the waters became suddenly cluttered with small boats bobbing alongside the Darien. Curious onlookers had come to see the arrival of this desperate cargo. Shimon could recognize reporters on the upper deck of a sightseeing vessel. These men waved and snapped their cameras into the faces of men and women who could not find the strength now for even one smile.

  The faces turned away from the statue. “They are coming up now, coming up to see America. They are coming, and look! Look how gently Klaus carries Ada-Marie in his arms! You would think she was only sleeping, only sleeping. See how the wind ruffles her hair.”

  Klaus emerged first with the child’s body in his arms. Maria followed after him. Trudy and Gretchen held her hands. And then Louise and Katrina came, holding tightly to each other.

  The horn of the Darien bellowed. No one looked at the green statue. All eyes moved with the family. The passengers parted like the Red Sea; Klaus held his head high as he made his way with Ada-Marie to the bow of the ship.

  “You see, my little one,” he was heard to whisper. “We are safe at last . . . America. There will be a place for us here. A place for you where we will come. You see, Ada-Marie? Bubbe will be waiting. Like Papa said, we are safe.”

  28

  In the Hour of Our Death

  By the time the tugs had nudged the Darien into its berth, a crowd of three thousand supporters had gathered outside the chain-link fence. Christians and Jews alike sat or stood on the enormous crates of canned goods and necessities that had been gathered over the last ten days.

  Mrs. Rosenfelt stood at the front of the happy crowd with her sisters and nieces and nephews and a host of little Rosenfelts—including the infamous Franklin D. Rosenfelt! Charles sat on the top of a crate beside Murphy, who wanted very much to remain out of the range of excited elbows and jostling participants in this evening’s welcome.

  A band from Brooklyn played a full repertoire of Jewish songs as if the occasion were a bar mitzvah or a wedding reception. Pastors from every variety of Protestant churches led their little flocks among others led by priests and rabbis. For this one evening, at any rate, theological disputes had been laid aside and warring factions remembered together the parable of the Good Samaritan and the miracles of Christ. The loaves and fishes of God’s love had suddenly multiplied beyond the laws of immigration, to reach out to the immigrants as human beings.

  It was, Murphy concluded, really something to see. Jesus was out there right in the middle of it—loading canned peaches onto a pallet, carrying boxes of clothing and blankets to the dockside, counting out vials of aspirin and sulfa pills. Loaves and fishes! A miracle in New York City!

  There were, of course, the modern Pharisees who watched the miracle from the sidelines. Government officials from the State Department, uniformed officers from the port authority, policemen, and lawyers—all stood together with sour, disapproving faces. These were the fellows inside the chain-link fence. These were the authorities who were nearest the silent refugees peering down with emotion-filled eyes. These men were placed there to keep any of the refugees from disembarking. Murphy had been warned of this. Everyone knew that the law of the land was still much stronger than the law of love as far as the government was concerned. This show of authority was not a surprise. Twenty officials, it seemed, still had more muscle than three thousand prayerful well-wishers this evening.

  Lines were secured. Murphy watched from his perch as Bubbe Rosenfelt clutched at the chain-link and searched the crowded deck above for some sign of Maria and Klaus. For Trudy, Katrina, Gretchen, Louise and . . . Ada-Marie! He knew their names now. Everyone in America knew their names.

  And now the question filled his mind as it must have filled the minds of all the other
s who had come to do what was good and right. Why were the faces of the Darien passengers so sad? Why did tears stream down their faces? Could joy have overcome them with such emotion?

  The clarinet played a lively tune, something to dance to. The crowds continued to call, “Welcome to America!” Signs of greeting were waved, and yet. . . .

  Charles tugged hard on Murphy’s sleeve. The boy’s eyes suddenly became a mirror of the sadness Murphy saw in the Darien faces. Charles pointed up—up to the deck of the wheelhouse. And there they were: Maria, Klaus, Trudy, Gretchen, Katrina, Louise. And Ada-Marie! The reason for the tears was plain now. Chalk-white and limp, the child in her father’s arms was dead. Murphy had seen dead children before. He had seen the tears of parents as they held their children like this.

  “Ah, no!” he muttered. A knife tore through his heart. “Ah, Jesus, no! Not the little one . . . not Ada-Marie.” He did not move. He could not. It seemed that no one on this side of the fence had noticed the tragedy on the bridge. No one except . . . Bubbe Rosenfelt.

  “Maria!” cried the old woman. “Oh, Maria . . . my little ones! I am here! Maria . . . Oh no! Ada-Marie? Is it? Can it be? Dear God, tell me it is not so!”

  Through the fog of her pain, Maria followed the sounds of her grandmother’s grief! She saw Bubbe Rosenfelt pressed against the chain-link crushing the orchid corsage against the blue dress she had worn on this day of such great joy. “Bubbe!” Maria cried. And then, “Oh, Bubbe, she is gone! She is gone!” Her arms stretched out as if to span the cruel distance with an embrace. Fingers spread and reached from the ship and then the hands of Bubbe Rosenfelt strained gnarled fingers through the wire squares.

  The music still played. Why did they not stop? Happy music and speeches of welcome suddenly had no place.

  And then another melody filled the air. From beyond the docks Murphy could hear the sound of men’s voices singing . . . what? Their feet tramped upon the pavement and then the wood of the docks. They rounded the corner of a huge warehouse. They marched rank on rank with torches in hand. They carried signs. They came and came until the three thousand well-wishers fell silent at the thunder of the newcomers. Three to one the ranks number, at least, Murphy thought. Maybe more. Probably more. Some wore uniforms. And they sang as they carried their torches and their signs,

  God bless America, land that I love!

  Stand beside her and guide her!

  Through the night with the light from above!

  And with that well-known song the light of the torches illuminated the signs:

  America for Americans!

  No More Jewish Scum in Our Country!

  Ban Christ-killers from Our Shores!

  Tighten Immigration Laws!

  Let Them Sink!

  Roosevelt—Remember We Vote Too!

  There was violence simmering just beneath the surface as nine thousand men, led by the Nazi Fritz Kuhn, were then joined by another two thousand men and women from the other directions.

  Silence fell as three thousand Christians and Jews stood together among the crates and the boxes and the slack-jawed musicians. The silence was angry. Fire from the upraised torches reflected in their eyes.

  Murphy could hear the sobs of Bubbe Rosenfelt. He saw the policemen move out through the chain-link gate and place themselves between what had become two angry mobs. Another official hurried into a corrugated tin office. Framed in the window, Murphy watched as the official picked up a telephone and dialed. His shouting voice radiated through the glass panes of the window: “Send a riot squad down here! Quick! There’s going to be bloodshed over this! Hurry! Thousands! Hurry!”

  Bubbe Rosenfelt seemed not to notice. She held her hand over her mouth. In her eyes was the reflected image of Ada-Marie.

  A policeman raised his hands as if to silence the already silent mob. “Ah, now. Why don’t you all go home!”

  The suggestion of reasonable behavior pried the lid off Pandora’s box. A chorus of angry shouts and boos came up in a wave to cover the dock and the buildings and the ship and the mourners.

  “We don’t want them here!”

  “Why doesn’t Roosevelt feed America’s hungry?” This was shrieked as the mob gestured wildly at the crates of food that had been gathered from the churches.

  “Hitler has the right idea!”

  “We don’t want no stinking Jews in New York!”

  “We got the laws on our side!”

  “They all got syphilis! Typhus! No foreigners! Tow ’em outta here, or we’ll tear ’em apart!”

  From far away the sound of faint sirens could be heard. Closer and closer they came to the docks. How would they ever penetrate the hatred of this mob?

  At that moment some brave young man in a Salvation Army uniform stood up on the crates and raised his arms like a choir director. He began to sing,

  I was sinking deep in sin,

  Far from the peaceful shore,

  Very deeply stained within,

  Sinking to rise no more.

  Others joined him until the sound of the sirens and catcalls was drowned for an instant, only to rise up again with a new fury. A barrage of rotten vegetables exploded from the ranks of Kuhn’s followers. The young song leader was splattered with the stinking mess and knocked from his perch.

  As if by signal, the flashing red lights of the riot squad spun to a halt at the rear of the cursing, hostile legion. Now shrieks and wails erupted and the mob burst into violence. Torches and placards were hurled, crates overturned. The two groups blended into one raging sea of fury as the men and women and children of the Darien looked on. And Bubbe Rosenfelt wept.

  ***

  There was nothing to be done now. There was nothing to do but watch.

  As Leah and Louis sprawled exhausted on a flat boulder below Father Prato, he crouched behind a fortress of stones and peered through the binoculars across the Italian border into Austria. He longed to turn away from the scene being played out there, but still he stared in horror as the Wehrmacht soldiers pursued Henri, the stocky young Austrian guide who had led Leah and Louis here, and then had stepped back across the unseen line into the danger of his homeland.

  “Pray for us now and in the hour of our death.” Father Prato whispered the words as soldiers with guns and dogs closed in on the Austrian. From boulder to boulder the brave man leaped as dogs strained against short leads and bared their fangs in snarls that the priest could see but not hear. “Why did he not flee to Italy?” the priest muttered as the Austrian climbed higher along the face of a cliff that had no escape route to the top. The priest could see the trap. The Austrian could not.

  Face taut with fear, lips tight with exertion, the Austrian clambered up a slope of loose shale and slipped backward. He was an easy target for the rifles of the German border patrol, and yet they did not shoot. Why?

  In horrifying fascination, the priest turned the binoculars onto the face of the Nazi pursuers. There were seven of them—young, hard men. They were no older than the man they now hunted. That was it. This was a hunt, a sport for them, and all seven of the Nazis were smiling with pleasure at the game. No doubt they had hunted before. No doubt there was coming a moment when they would turn the dogs loose on their prey like hounds on a fox.

  “Now and in the hour of our death . . .”

  Father Prato’s binoculars swung across the face of the shale, back to where the Austrian scrambled up once again in vain and then slid back. His face was ashen, covered with dust, reflecting the color of death even before he knew his life was ending. Still he struggled. The priest prayed louder now, cheering and encouraging the Austrian across the distance of the small valley.

  Leah and Louis seemed oblivious to the fate of their savior. It was just as well. Hadn’t they been through enough? Days and miles of hiking over crumbling mountain paths. Hiding from the German border patrols. Sleeping cold and hungry for days. The priest would not direct their attention to the inevitable end of the man who had brought them to safety. He would n
ot remind them that a man was going to die for them. They had lost enough; it would not be fitting.

  “Why do they not shoot him?” the priest muttered again. The dogs leaned against the grips of their masters. The priest gasped as the leader of the patrol raised a whistle to his lips and blew hard. Delayed by distance, the sound reached the ears of the priest. Hard young men reached forward to unsnap the leather leads of their fierce dogs. Like wolves, the animals sprang forward and moved toward their victim as though he had called them to him.

  “No!” shouted Father Prato as the animals covered the distance to the Austrian. They converged upon him in effortless violence, leaping upon him as he tried to shield his face with his arms. Seven wolves. One man. He fell beneath the force of their weight. The soldiers in the patrol cheered and laughed in exultation at the spectacle. No doubt they had enjoyed this sport before. Father Prato crossed himself at that evil thought.

  Far above, two eagles circled and screamed. Or was it the voice of the Austrian that filled the mountains and caused the heart of the priest to go cold? A stream of red spurted up into the air. The dogs formed a circle around the Austrian. The guards still cheered them on. The struggle seemed to go on forever; it was, in fact, only a moment before the Austrian ceased to fight. Father Prato wept and shook his head. The soldiers did not call off the dogs even when it was over.

  ***

  It was like a jewel box. White enamel trimmed in brass that gleamed like gold, the inside lined with white satin.

  “A lovely little thing. One of our finest children’s caskets,” said the mortician as Murphy wrote out the check from the account Theo had set up for them at Chase-Manhattan.