by Bodie Thoene
***
It was early evening in Berlin. The headquarters of the Gestapo on Albrechstrasse was lit up; each department prepared for the monumental task ahead tonight.
Teletypes clacked an urgent directive to every police headquarters across the Reich. What had begun in Munich and spread to Berlin must now be enacted in every city, large or small, with even one Jew as a resident.
It was night unlike any other in the history of Germany—perhaps in the history of the world.
Lists of Jewish names and businesses, compiled over long and arduous months of work, were reproduced and transmitted to the appropriate authorities. Within an hour, the roads of Hitler’s Third Reich were packed with truckloads of eager Storm Troopers dressed in civilian clothing and studying long lists of Jews in the neighboring towns where they were assigned to duty. No man was allowed to participate in the demonstration in his own neighborhood, lest he come across a Jewish neighbor and take pity. Instead, the targeted victims would all be strangers to the troops. Thus the Jews became impersonal, generic vermin of the sort the Führer raved about in his speeches. “Every Jew an enemy, man, woman, child—no better than bacilli, whose purpose is to infect the pure Aryan race!”
Destinations were predetermined. Targets had been marked long before Herschel Grynspan ever contemplated the assassination of Ernst vom Rath in Paris. The orders came directly from the top, inviolate and explicit in their instruction.
To All State Police Headquarters and Branch Offices:
All Secret Service Commands in the Main and Subdivisions . . . Urgent! Immediate Delivery!
Subject: Measures to be Taken against Jews Tonight.
As a result of the death of Embassy Secretary Enrst vom Rath in Paris, anti-Jewish demonstrations are to be expected throughout the Reich tonight. The following instructions will be observed:
1. Demonstrations against the Jews and their synagogues will take place shortly. Measures will be taken to protect German lives and property (e.g., synagogues may be set on fire as long as there is no danger of spreading flames to neighboring buildings).
A. Jewish shops and homes may be destroyed but not looted.
B. The officers assigned this duty will proceed to arrest as many Jews in all districts as the available jail space will hold. Primarily well-to-do Jews will be chosen.
The German attention to detail had been honed to its sharpest cutting edge for just such a night. Those who had conceived the idea and brought the plan to reality smiled pleasantly at one another as they raised their wine glasses in congratulations.
Tonight was a night unlike any other in the history of Germany, after all. What nation had ever brought such discipline and organization to the goals of violence, destruction, and chaos?
***
A thick file, filled with memos, letters, and photographs of the traitors, lay open on the coffee table in front of Adolf Hitler. Others in the room, sitting across from the Führer, cocked their heads in an attempt to read the upside-down writing beneath the Gestapo insignia.
Hitler relaxed in his favorite overstuffed chair. He held up the photograph showing Thomas von Kleistmann crucified on a cross of ordinary planks taken from the scaffolding construction site on Albrechtstrasse. He leaned forward briefly and picked out the picture of Ernst vom Rath, dead on a hospital bed in Paris.
“Traitors, both of them,” he commented.
In the background, a recording replayed the voices of Ernst vom Rath’s father and another man who sounded near to tears.
“Herr vom Rath, every Jew in Germany deplores the murder of your dear son. . . .”
The Führer raised a finger to stop the recording. “And who is this again?”
“A neighbor of the vom Rath family. A Jew. He is the cantor of the neighborhood synagogue. Come to beg for pardon, I suppose.”
“Play it over again,” Hitler ordered calmly.
“Herr vom Rath, every Jew in Germany deplores the murder of your dear son by one of our own.”
“It was not a Jew who killed Ernst.” The elder vom Rath’s voice cracked with grief. “Ernst was no Nazi, and it was the Nazis who have had him assassinated. I know who killed him. It was Hitler and his vipers.”
Hitler’s expression remained placid, unchanged, as he listened. Those in the room with him eyed their leader with alarm, expecting rage at such words from the mouth of Ernst vom Rath’s father.
The recording continued uninterrupted. “But my friend,” said the Jewish cantor, “it was not the Nazis, but a foolish young Jewish boy. We grieve with you—”
“No, Reverend,” protested vom Rath. “I know what you think, but the Nazis are behind it. Ernst was too outspoken. Last time I saw him he seem troubled . . . as though he knew.”
Once again Hitler raised his finger as though the recording bored him. It was stopped, and he shuffled through the thick folder again, laying photographs of the two dead men side by side.
“Both traitors,” he muttered. “One is now ashes, sitting in an urn on his mother’s mantel. The other—” he held up the photograph of Ernst. “We must spare no expense for the funeral.”
Himmler dared to speak. “How should we silence his father? The old fool is telling Jews that we have killed his son.”
Hitler smiled. “Then he is not such a fool.”
A chittering of agreeable laughter followed, and the Führer held up notes posted in Paris and addressed to Elisa Murphy in London. Both were quite clearly the handwriting of Ernst vom Rath. These were proof that the German diplomat was a traitor to the Reich and that he deserved what he got. He would now be made into a martyr for the Reich to serve the convenience of the Nazi party. What did vom Rath care? He was stone dead, anyway.
The Führer considered the photograph of Ernst’s father—white-haired, dignified, aristocratic. It would not be good to kill the old man or arrest him for treason after making his murdered son a hero.
Hitler snapped his fingers impatiently. “This old man has Jews as friends, does he?”
“Yes. Quite a number.”
“And he blames the death of his son on us, does he?”
“Entirely. We have showed him the picture of Herschel Grynspan, but he still believes we are behind it.”
The Führer raised his chin in thought. “Then we shall pay off the old man with a position, some post where he might faithfully serve the Nazi party. Perhaps he should be made head of Jewish affairs in some city. We will send him quotas for the arrests of so many Jews a week.” He raised his hands as though this was merely a thought for consideration. “That should eliminate his Jewish friends.”
Now the laughter was uproarious. Every man in the room agreed that no one could neutralize opposition with the finesse of Adolf Hitler.
“And what about the woman in London vom Rath send the messages to?” Himmler asked, tapping the address on the postcard.
“You are having her watched?” Hitler questioned Himmler carefully.
“We have an agent on duty now.”
“Good.” That seemed to satisfy Hitler. He snapped his fingers a few more times and then pushed the photographs across the table to Himmler. “I want this picture of Thomas von Kleistmann copied and circulated around the military. Send it to Admiral Canaris in the Abwehr. It will not hurt for these reluctant patriots to see what happens to a proven traitor. Crucifixion will have some effect. Not every traitor can be as lucky as Ernst vom Rath, eh? To die at the hand of a Jew and be made into an eternal martyr. No. It is good if they see the boards and the nails and the blood. It will make them think about it before they fall into something they may regret.”
Hitler stretched and stood, moving slowly toward the curtained window. “The British Embassy in Berlin will hand over Theo Lindheim. And as for his family in London, we should plan something very discreet for them. Nothing flashy. We do not want to give the other side a host of their own martyrs to draw strength from, ja, Himmler?”
At that, he pulled back the heavy drapery and stared out o
ver the city. Vengeance for the death of martyr Ernst vom Rath had just begun.
2
The Mouth of Hell Has Opened
From his window at the British Embassy, Theo Lindheim could see them clearly—two Gestapo officers waiting outside the gates as the staff car from the German Foreign Ministry entered. The bright lights from the Brandenburg Gate lit the sidewalk where they stood watching truckloads of Storm Troopers drive past slowly. To the east a new and terrible light illuminated the underbelly of the clouds. Berlin’s finest synagogue was on fire.
Mr. Kirkpatrick, first secretary of the embassy, entered quietly and stood at Theo’s elbow, gazing out at the scene. Kirkpatrick had served for six years in Berlin. He knew everybody and everything, and up until this night he had been able to maintain his puckish Irish humor in even the most grim situations. But tonight an edge of fear crept into his voice as he took Theo by the elbow and urged him back from the window.
“One of our guards spotted three men on the roof of the Adlon Hotel,” he warned, drawing the curtain. “All it would take is one bullet through the glass, and the Nazis could claim another assassination by the Jews, eh?”
Theo nodded. He sat down slowly on the bed. “I would not be mourned in Germany.”
Kirkpatrick glanced at his watch. “We cannot transport you as planned, but the American ambassador should be here shortly.” He frowned. “The Nazis have sent a minor official from the foreign office to discuss your extradition and arrest. They claim you came here as the hub of some great Jewish plot to assassinate German leaders around the world. They have presented our ambassador with a sheaf of documents on your criminal activities.” He peeked out the curtain as the lights of another vehicle turned onto the Embassy Drive. “Your case should take most of the night to discuss. By then you should be well on your way.” He looked again, then smiled. “The American ambassador. At the gate.”
Theo resisted the urge to look out the window. Kirkpatrick hurried from the room, leaving Theo alone to contemplate his fate. He was safe, for the moment, inside the British Embassy. The Nazis would not take him from here by force. There were other channels, legal methods of getting what they wanted. Clearly, Theo Lindheim was about to become another political issue for the Nazi Propaganda Ministry to use against England. Theo found himself rethinking the British policy of appeasing the Nazis. Since Prime Minister Chamberlain had barely noticed when Germany swallowed Austria whole, and then had presented Hitler with a massive piece of Czechoslovakia on demand, Theo Lindheim knew he was not in safe hands. What was one man, after all?
And no doubt the Gestapo had compiled a convincing case with forged documents and half-truths. “You can see, the father of Herschel Grynspan once worked for Theo Lindheim. The connection is quite clear.”
Like a mouse drawn to a trap, Theo could see the iron rod poised above his head, ready to break his neck. At this very moment the British ambassador, known for his weakness and vacillation in the face of arrogant Nazi demands, discussed his case with the German Foreign Ministry representatives. The man had never held out against the Germans on even one small point—except in his argument with Göring about the proper way to hunt a stag, perhaps. Theo was grateful that the American ambassador had called to request a meeting with Henderson tonight.
Theo switched on a light and took paper and pen from the writing table. He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath as he tried to picture Anna and Elisa in London. Tonight was the benefit concert for refugees in Prague. It would just be finished. They would not have gotten word yet about the riots here in Berlin. He would write Anna and tell her that he was not afraid. Death had been very near to him before, and he was no longer frightened of it. If he did not make it home to her, Theo wanted to tell her that . . . and to include details of his meeting with Hermann Göring. How he pitied the fat German Field Marshal and all of Hitler’s minions!
Even as they raged against the innocent in the streets of Germany; even as they bartered for the life of Theo downstairs, they had brought themselves into a judgment far greater than they could ever imagine.
Kirkpatrick had said it would take the entire night for the ambassador to consider his case. By then, Theo supposedly would be out of Germany. But if not, Theo wanted Anna to know that, although he trembled at the evil these men brought upon others, he no longer feared what they would do to him.
In that terrible hour he wrote,
A perfect peace has filled my heart. The mouth of hell has opened wide here, yet I believe in the coming justices of the Holy One. Even now I feel His perfect love, and all fear is cast away from my heart, cast into the fires and burned away. . . .
***
Lights shone brightly from the windows of the house in Red Lion Square. Automobiles crawled slowly around the corner and crowded against the curb outside the residence of John and Elisa Murphy. Taxi drivers who had picked up their passengers after the Refugee Relief Concert at Royal Albert Hall now grumbled about fares being the same in fair weather and foul. Unless the fog lifted, they warned, it might be difficult to find a cab later.
The night air resounded with rattling motors, laughter, and the music of a jazz band Murphy had hired to entertain the orchestra members after the concert. The music was more of a beacon than the lights of the house.
Little Charles Kronenberger rubbed a peephole through the steamy window to peer down at the arriving guests. The orchestra members, toting instruments of all sizes, were easy to spot. Men in overcoats and women in furs and high heels called to one another as they blended with arrivals from the Press Corps and members of England’s clergy and a handful of politicians crowding up the stairs.
“They all came!” Charles called to Louis, who was looking for his missing right shoe beneath the bed.
With a gesture of triumph, Louis held up his wayward shoe and ran to join his brother at the window. His eyes widened at the sight of so many people carrying small paper-wrapped packages. Admission to tonight’s party was a new article of clothing or a pound note to be tied on the limb of the money tree. Charles and Louis were the gift-takers and the tree-tenders tonight.
“See, Charles,” Louis chided as he tied his shoelaces. “I told you they would come. Even the journalists have come. They don’t work all the time.”
Charles nodded. Louis had been right after all. This afternoon, when Murphy had told Elisa and Anna about the German fellow who had died in Paris, both women had grown very pale and sad. Anna had looked away through the window, as if she could see something very terrible there. Charles had seen such an expression on the face of his mother in Hamburg when his father had been arrested. Hopeless. Despairing. It made him worry again. It made him wish that Theo was not away someplace in Europe. It made him wonder if they would cancel the concert and the party to follow. He had taken Anna’s hand and followed her gaze over the rooftops of the London twilight.
Louis nudged him hard on the arm, bringing him back to this happy moment. “You were wrong,” Louis pronounced with finality.
Charles laughed out loud. How wonderful it was to be wrong about such a thing! In spite of bad news from far away, tonight would be a happy night after all!
He looked in the mirror at the thin pink scar that traced his upper lip to his left nostril. He smiled at himself, pleased that he and Louis looked so very much alike. He still pronounced his words with difficulty, but he was learning to speak like other children. Seeing the six-year-old’s toothless grin, Anna had winked at him and told him how handsome he was, and that he must be her escort since Theo was away on business and would miss the party. And when, for a moment, the sadness in her eyes had made him long for his own mother and father, Elisa had taken him on her lap and reminded him that his parents were both in heaven and could see him and Louis very clearly from there. “They will be watching, Charles,” she whispered. “And they will be very proud that you are helping other people tonight. They will want you to be happy, ja?”
Now, as the music of the jazz trio vibrated u
p through the floor, the two boys ran for the door and clattered down the stairway to the light and noise of the great room.
***
Captain Samuel Orde looked rumpled and exhausted as he followed Zach Zabinski toward the small white building that served as the Hanita infirmary.
Moshe Sachar followed six paces behind the Englishman. His face reflected the exhaustion of renewed grief as he looked at the lights of the building and realized what lay within it.
Orde jerked a thumb back toward Moshe. “There is a rumor that there is also a price on Moshe’s head. The Mufti himself has demanded that the second Sachar brother be executed for his role in the killing of Ismael Hassan. Totally fabricated nonsense, of course, but then, we have seen what the Muslim fanatics can do. Putting a price on the head of Moshe Sachar simply keeps the fires burning a little longer.”
Zach turned toward Moshe. “You may not be any safer here than in Jerusalem.” He motioned toward the infirmary to make his point. “But you are welcome, of course.”
Moshe nodded in reply as Orde answered for him. “He will undergo the same training as your men.” He reached for the door of the infirmary; the sound of sobbing filtered out. “We will begin training tonight.” Zach opened his mouth to protest that training on such a tragic night was out of the question. Orde had already thrust open the door and entered the room, now a temporary morgue and place of mourning.
One bloody sheet covered two bodies lying side by side on the concrete floor. A dozen members of the settlement sat on cots or stood against the wall to weep or stare in silence at their fallen comrades.
Two women huddled together on the end of a cot. They wept loudly and did not look up as Orde entered with the others.
