Danzig Passage

by Bodie Thoene

  “Empty?”

  Zach snorted once, then comprehension crossed his face. He plunged inside, followed by Larry Havas. A moment later the two men dragged long, heavy crates out of the hut. Moshe stooped to enter and returned with leather bandoliers of cartridges swung over his shoulders. Emerging from the structure he heard a cracking sound as Zach pried open the lid of his crate.

  An unmistakable note of shocked triumph echoed in Zach’s voice. “Rifles! Real weapons! Still in oilcloth, and German, I think.”

  “Of course German,” Orde replied softly, “what else? You can manage to carry six apiece, plus ammunition. Put the rest back inside and take cover.”

  Exultation filled every face, a heady excitement at the prospect of being able to defend the settlement with real weapons. Then the full import of Orde’s words sank in.

  “You mean we’re not ready to leave now?” asked Larry nervously. “If we stay very long, we’re gonna get caught. I mean, the Arabs won’t leave stuff like this alone.”

  “Precisely.”

  “What do you mean, precisely?” demanded Zach.

  “I mean,” Orde said, “we’re waiting for them to return.”

  The little band wasted no time in dividing up the weapons. They examined the barrels to see that the rifles were not plugged with grease. They distributed cartridges and loaded each rifle. Orde inspected each soldier and issued last-minute instructions. Then he glanced at his watch and gathered them in a tight circle like a coach on the sidelines with his soccer team.

  “The horse is prepared for battle—” He thumped Larry Havas on the back. “But tonight you will see that victory is from the Lord.” Without further introduction, he turned his attention to the Almighty. “We thank you, Lord, for the victory you have given us. We ask your mercy for the men who are about to die because of their own foolish actions against your people Israel. Amen.”

  The six troopers barely had time to bow their heads before the prayer was finished. Their nervous expressions reflected surprise. Orde held up a finger and in a sudden gentle voice said, “Remember, this is your land, promised to you by the Eternal. You must do your part, just as the Israelites did, and the Lord will be with you. Think of Gideon. Do not be afraid of them, although there will be many.”

  It was apparent that Orde himself was thinking of Gideon. He stationed his men in a ragged semicircle among the rocks that overlooked the trail and the hut. Once again he demanded silence. A distant night bird sounded a lonely call above Moshe.

  In spite of Orde’s encouragement, Moshe’s unsettled conscience nagged him as the long minutes passed. From his perch above the trail, he had a clear view of the door to the hut. Anyone entering would be within his sights. He had practiced firing an old rifle in Haganah training, but for the first time he realized that the targets would be real and human. Minutes dragged into hours, and the night deepened. Moshe told himself that the Arabs who came—if they came tonight—were coming in preparation for attacking another Jewish settlement. He thought of Eli. He remembered the body of the pretty young woman at Hanita. With these vivid memories he managed to strengthen his resolve. But waiting like this, with a weapon in his hands, still felt cold-blooded.

  A half moon was pushing against the blackness of the eastern sky. The hills seemed to light up with its strange fire. Then suddenly the silence was broken.

  Far down the narrow canyon the sound of happy voices drifted up through the stillness. Startled, the bird fluttered away from the nest above Moshe. The Jihad Moquades tramped up the trail noisily, without fear.

  Whatever doubts Moshe had were quickly replaced by a sense of panic. This was not a mere handful of men approaching, but a large troop of fighters. A long line of lights moved and swayed upward. Moshe tried to count them, but when he reached seventy-five, his mind went blank. He checked the steep embankment above him. Would he be able to escape up it? Too steep, impassable. He envied the night bird and suddenly felt angry at the English captain for making them stay here and fight when they should have taken their weapons and made a dash back to Hanita!

  Moshe blinked hard; at least three times more lights gathered now than when he had stopped counting. He could make out the features of the Holy Strugglers by the glow of ancient lanterns and modern flashlights. Moshe suddenly realized that Captain Orde was not surprised by the numbers of Arabs coming boldly to this place. He had expected it. Like Gideon, he had known his men would be vastly outnumbered.

  Voices and laughter grew clearer. Unlike the farmers of this afternoon, these men did not jest among themselves; instead, their conversation was full of boasting about last night’s attacks against a dozen settlements, how the Jews and English were quaking with fear in their holes! Another added how easily the Jewish throats had bled, and how he regretted that these new weapons would replace the pleasure of the old ways of fighting.

  It was the last thing he ever regretted. Two dozen Arabs moved into the clearing and toward the door of the hut. Orde shouted, “In the name of the British government—” The startled faces of the Jihad warriors raised to the rocks. Their hands reached for their weapons and a shout of rage and alarm swept through the line.

  Orde did not need to issue the command to fire. Each of the Hanita fighters picked out a lighted figure and claimed it as his own. Their fingers tightened automatically around the triggers, and the air thundered with what sounded like a thousand Englishmen tucked among the rocks. The blast of rifle volleys resounded amid screams filled with terror.

  The Arabs attempted to fight back. Those in the clearing shot wildly up into the rocks as they fled back down the path. Lights and lanterns tumbled down the dusty slopes at the side of the trail.

  Moshe kept his sights on the door of the hut as Orde had instructed. Two men charged for its shelter and tumbled back to the ground. A third dropped in midair and fell like a stone on his dying comrades. One Arab pushed forward, shouting for his men to have courage for the sake of the Mufti and Allah and the Prophet! His flashlight went spinning out of his shattered hand, and he fled away after his troops. Moshe continued to fire after them. Larry and Zach and the others continued to pump bullets into the blackness.

  Three times Orde called for a cease-fire. One at a time his six soldiers heard him, and the night became silent once again.

  Orde scrambled down from his position. “Now we need to hurry,” he said as the breathless men gathered around him.

  Twelve bodies littered the clearing. Orde removed a folded slip of paper from his jacket and pinned a note on the robe of one of the fallen enemy.

  PLEASE IDENTIFY ATTACHED CORPSE KILLED WHILE PROCURING SMUGGLED WEAPONS FOR USE AGAINST BRITISH FORCES.

  SIGNED, SAMUEL ORDE, CAPTAIN

  “Will they come back?” Zach asked.

  “Yes,” Orde said calmly. “Gather what you can carry. Wait for me at the head of the trail.”

  Each man shouldered six rifles plus leather bandoliers of bullets. No one questioned Orde any longer. They had managed to face at least three hundred Arabs and lived to tell about it! For the moment they still lived, anyway!

  Moshe trailed after the others as Samuel Orde dashed into the hut. The minute he remained inside seemed longer than the hours they had waited for the Moquades. At last he sauntered out easily, a grenade in his hand. He tossed it into the hut and made a run for a heap of boulders just as the whole structure lifted from the ground in one giant explosion.

  The rumble of a rockslide was still audible fifteen minutes later as the seven men scrambled over an obscure goat path by the light of the moon. Carrying forty-two new rifles and four thousand rounds of ammunition for the protection of the Jewish settlements of Galilee, the new trainees of Orde’s Special Night Squad melted undetected into the labyrinth of the rugged hills.

  14

  Nameless Prison

  Hitler made a bad attempt at tossing the blame for Kristal Nacht to Winston Churchill and Anthony Eden in England. “It is no accident,” he proclaimed, “that this vil
e little Jew in Paris holds the same views about our Reich as Winston Churchill and his Jew-loving cronies!”

  For seven days the world cried out in mourning and in outrage against the Nazis. Churchmen and diplomats and politicians had one voice: “We must find a place of refuge for these poor, downtrodden people! Somewhere in the wide world we must find a haven for them!”

  Men and women fleeing Germany spent the nights in cold, wet irrigation ditches on the borders of France and Holland and what remained of Czechoslovakia. Turned away at the crossings, they returned by cattle truck to German concentration camps.

  Those who managed to escape into other countries bordering Germany also went into camps for aliens with the promise that they would stay for two weeks, no longer, and then they would be returned.

  In the United States, the cry for mercy rang out so loud that President Roosevelt appointed another commission to decide how the refugees might best be taken into the country. America seemed to be having a change of heart. Perhaps the torch of freedom might burn brightly again.

  The wilderness of Alaska was chosen as a likely place for the settlement of unwanted Jews. A very good place. They could not possibly cause trouble there.

  America church leaders sounded the warning that Christian concern must not be allowed to wither and die. America had traditionally been a land of refuge for those who were persecuted, and so a hand must be extended. Homes must be provided.

  Inundated by telegrams, President Roosevelt announced that he had every intention of taking in as many refugees as possible.

  Here was hope! In England, Elisa and Anna and Theo read Murphy’s news wires with joy, praying that they would prove true.

  Spurred on by this show of support, the British Prime Minster finally admitted publicly, “It seems all the reports from Germany are indeed true!” Although further settlement of Jews in Palestine was out of the question due to the daily violence, perhaps there was a colony somewhere in the British Empire that could allow the Jews to settle.

  By the seventh day, however, Kristal Nacht had become old news. Leaders in England and the United States as well as France seemed irritated that the Jews had gotten in the way of Nazi clubs. The Germans claimed that Jews had gotten what they deserved, that they had provoked the outburst.

  By the 20th of November, the head of St. Paul’s Cathedral in London had written an article that declared:

  The Jews are using their not inconsiderable influence in the press and Parliament to embroil us with Germany!

  At almost the same moment, the President of the Council of Churches in America announced: “Though we as Christians are sympathetic to the plight of the Jews, we do not in any way support a political Zionism or the settlement of Jews in the British Mandate of Palestine.”

  From that moment, mercy became tempered with practicality. Settling thousands of homeless people would take money. Whose money? Whose land?

  Murphy brought the bad news home to dinner that night. It had all come in at once—the smashing of hope, the final revelation of the utter hypocrisy of the democracies.

  He tossed a sheaf of paper down on the dinner table in front of Theo.

  Theo looked up at him. He did not pick up the dispatches but waited instead for Murphy to recite the news out loud.

  It took a moment for Murphy to find his voice. The roast grew cold on the platter as appetites waned.

  “Alaska is out. The honorable Representative Dies from Texas and Senator Borah from Idaho have said that America will not take one more refugee than it has to. That Congress will vote down anything that comes through that even hints of enlarging the immigration quota.” He paused as Theo’s face reflected acceptance, but not surprise. “The Alaskans . . . ” Murphy faltered in disbelief at what he had to say. “Well, they say that European Jews are not suited for settlement in Alaska. They would interfere.”

  At this, Elisa burst out angrily, “So what are we suited for? To die? Wasn’t this enough? How can they—”

  Murphy sighed and took his seat. “Now President Roosevelt is back-pedaling as if his life depended on it. He says he didn’t mean to imply that the United States would actually take in more refugees. No, sir. What he meant was that those 12,000 German Jews who are in the States on visitors’ visas as tourists can have their visas renewed for another six months if they want.”

  “Visas renewed.” Anna and Theo exchanged looks. Dieter and Wilhelm had just left for New York on visitors’ visas as guests of Mr. Trump. They hoped to go to school there, out of reach of the turmoil of Europe. “Six months?” Anna said, her voice thick with emotion.

  “Of course, that could change overnight.” Elisa’s eyes brimmed with tears of frustration. “After all, it has only been a little more than a week since Kristal Nacht. They have made themselves feel better by talking about compassion and mercy! They condemn the Nazis and then give Hitler the right to do what he wants. These people will not remember our suffering at all a month from now!”

  “No homeland in Palestine,” Theo repeated. “No support from the churches for Zionism. Then where shall we turn? Who will help us?”

  ***

  Every news publication of the Western democracies was analyzed by specialists within the massive Reich Ministry of Propaganda. The experts assessed public sentiment based on what the democratic press published every day. They discussed demonstrations of outrage against the policies of the Reich and took propaganda measures to counter any disfavor.

  Of course the Reich Minister of Propaganda, Joseph Goebbels, showed no surprise at the outcry against the pogroms of Kristal Nacht. What did startle him, however, was the speed with which that outcry subsided. Hitler was not at all taken aback. He recognized that the free press moved from one sensational story to the next, tiring of “yesterday’s news” before the blood congealed on the sidewalks.

  Goebbels brought several samples to the Chancellory to review with the Führer after the evening film screening of The Big Broadcast of 1938. Somehow it seemed fitting that they should gauge the effect of the press and radio broadcasts after watching the antics of Hollywood entertainers.

  The Führer, in an excellent mood, sent his mistress, Eva Braun, up to bed and promised he would be along shortly. He was particularly jovial and uncharacteristically ordered a glass of beer.

  Minister Goebbels felt that the clippings would not upset Hitler’s charming mood in any way—with the possible exception of one small detail that could easily be remedied.

  He threw open the leather portfolio containing the various newspapers. Hitler tossed several German magazines onto the floor and cleared the coffee table for action. His translator, Doktor Schmidt, read aloud the various condemnations in the articles, emphasizing the fact that the democracies were quick to add they could do little to help.

  The last newspaper was from the TENS London office. A predictably critical article by Winston Churchill on the back page of the first section was none too alarming. But as the pages turned, photographs displayed various Christian pastors who had been arrested in Berlin—not just their photographs alone, but pictures of their families as well. Articles explained in detail why these men had been in disfavor within the Reich. Descriptions were given of their families. The question about their fate was raised. The implication was clear: these men were not Jews; they simply disapproved of the Reich. Was the Nazi party frightened of small voices of individual disapproval? Was the Führer so insecure that he could not tolerate dissension even from the pulpits of the churches?

  Hitler frowned as Doktor Schmidt translated the lengthy articles. He leaned closer to stare at the smiling face of Pastor Karl Ibsen, his wife, and two children as they sat on the garden wall of New Church. This fellow had been nothing but trouble for the party. Since 1933, he had spoken out against every Reich policy designed to rid the state of beggars, cripples, and imbeciles. He championed the cause of hopeless causes! He proclaimed that every human life was of value. He decried the evils of euthanasia and forced sterilizatio
n.

  Hitler tapped his finger on Ibsen’s picture. “He is in custody?”

  “Arrested for violation of the Nuremberg racial laws. Hiding Jews,” Goebbels said in a positive tone.

  “His family?” The Führer looked thoughtful. Too thoughtful. Perhaps he was disturbed by this display of German churchmen.

  “Also in custody.” Goebbels did not tell Hitler that the daughter still remained at large. He chose to overlook that small detail. Besides, he and Himmler had the best agent in the Gestapo working on that matter.

  “Good.” Hitler seemed satisfied. He sat back and sighed deeply. “You can see how it is, Goebbels. These sniveling democracies are not really worried about Jews, either. Ah! But the Zionists will find a way to stir up the pot over these Christian pastors. No one in the West will care if we eliminate every Jew between here and Moscow. But arrest a handful of preachers, and they scream like it is their own family. Immense hypocrisy.”

  Goebbels started to close the paper. The Führer put a hand on his arm to stop him. He wanted to look a moment at the photograph of the man who had caused him so much trouble.

  “We handled the father of Ernst vom Rath quite well,” Hitler yawned.

  “Head of a racial office. Yes. He does not oppose us any longer.” Goebbels could not see the connection.

  “You see, Joseph, handling men is an art. Some you bribe with positions. Others you break with an iron rod. Some you simply persuade. Or torture.” He smiled. “And then there are men like our pastors here—paragons of German manhood. God and family come first. Honor, loyalty, and other admirable qualities fit in there somewhere.” He motioned toward the photograph. “Do you understand me?”

  Goebbels was not certain he did. It was late, after all. Past midnight. But he nodded.

  Hitler tapped on Ibsen’s photo again. “The Western press dotes on men like these. They make men like Karl Ibsen their martyrs.”