Danzig Passage

by Bodie Thoene

  Leah added:

  Better than that, we are all part of God’s kingdom. One family. One nation in His eyes. The people who want to destroy the world for their own reasons will find in the end that darkness must always fall back in retreat when there is light—even the light of one tiny candle! Each of us must fight the darkness in our own way. Some are soldiers who struggle against force. Some are preachers who raise their voices. Some pray. Some play music of praise. Shimon and I fight by simply remaining here in Jerusalem. God promised that we Jews would return to the land. Our battle is to believe His words and stay put, even though the Arabs would like to drive us back to the sea . . . .

  Louis asked Elisa to read all of Leah’s words. But Charles did not need to know everything. He clung tightly to the words of hope she sent to them in London:

  We will win! We will make it! Don’t worry or be afraid!

  All of this seemed to be written just for Charles, because sometimes he wondered if they would win. And he was afraid!

  He drew pictures of the house on Red Lion Square and put his smiling face beside that of Louis in the crooked crayon windows. Leah would be able to tell which face was Charles and which was Louis because there was still a line marking the scar on Charles’s mouth. That scar worried him lately; his imperfection frightened him. After all, that scar made him different and hated in Germany. Because of his mouth, his father and mother had died. He thought about that a lot, and only Leah’s letters made him feel better. Somehow he, too, wanted to fight the darkness, but the darkness felt too strong for him. He did not talk about these things, but they rose up in him every day as he struggled to learn to speak. The fears were with him when he smiled and someone’s eyes flitted down to the pink scar and then back to his eyes.

  Elisa gave each of the boys one of Leah’s letters to hold. They studied the stamp from this faraway part of the United Kingdom. Part of the same empire as London, but so very far away!

  And then, just as she had done every day, Elisa divided up the remaining mail between the boys and they helped her open it.

  Charles slit the big brown envelope, and the darkness came into the room. It flooded over him, driving away the good words of Leah, making him remember in one glance the things they had run from. Color drained from his cheeks. His eyes were riveted to the picture that was only half out of the envelope. It was a black-and-white image of a man nailed to planks.

  “Charles?” Elisa took the envelope from his limp hands. She gasped, and pain filled her expression. “Dear God,” she said, tossing the envelope across the table and gathering Charles up in her arms. “Oh, Charles! Charles! Who would send us such a thing?” She began to cry. She buried her face against Charles’ shoulder and repeated his name again and again.

  Louis had not seen the picture, and yet his face, too, reflected fear and grief. Elisa did not stop crying. Charles stared away out the window. It was very bad, this picture, whatever it was.

  Louis ran to the telephone and rang up Murphy at the office.

  ***

  The SS commandant called Karl out from the long line of prisoners. “You have a visitor,” he announced loudly.

  A ripple passed through the ranks of men. No one had visitors. Such things were not permitted, unless . . .

  “They will work on him,” said the atheist. “He will go over to them. You will see.”

  He muttered the words at great risk. Others also whispered among themselves. The guards must have heard, yet they did not beat the convicts for resenting Karl Ibsen.

  Karl marched off, surrounded by the four guards, to the office of the commandant. Richard watched as the striped uniform entered the office. “He will be back. You will see. He is the only righteous man I know.”

  ***

  Even with his eyes closed, Karl would have recognized the Rev. Gustav Dorfman by the scent of his hair pomade. Today, in preparation for this visit, Dorfman had groomed himself a bit more heavily than usual.

  The distinguished pastor of the First Lutheran Church in Berlin was handsome, in a posed sort of way. In his late forties, he was tall and thin, his suits always tailored to meticulous perfection. His wavy gray hair was always neatly trimmed, always in place. This afternoon was no different.

  Dorfman was well known within the church long before Hitler came to power. Widely recognized and respected as a man of God, his mellow, fluid, convincing voice packed the pews of Germany’s largest Lutheran church every Sunday. Karl knew him on a handshake basis only. He had not been surprised when Dorfman had been among the first churchmen to join the Nazi movement as the wave of the future, declaring National Socialist doctrine as “the hand of God to punish evil.”

  Dorfman did not offer to shake Karl’s grimy hand. It was just as well, Karl thought. Dorfman waved the guards from the room and indicated where Karl should sit. This man expected respect and received it in some measure from those who followed his teaching. Karl, beneath the filth and stench of his ordeal, viewed this shallow, empty man with pity rather than respect. Some of the men in the bunks of Barrack 7 grasped more knowledge of the Scriptures than this self-proclaimed spiritual leader. The young atheist who had wept at the thought of the Lord’s tears had infinitely more spiritual depth.

  However, Karl was glad for the chance to sit down in the warmth. No doubt the Nazi who respected Dorfman’s authority and the size of his congregation also believed that Karl would respect a clergyman as prominent as this.

  Dorfman took the chair farthest from Karl. He smiled. Perfect teeth gleamed. Manicured nails drummed the table.

  “Well, Pastor Ibsen. Karl?” The voice was smooth. “Tell me why you are here.”

  “I was ordered to report to the office,” Karl replied. “I assume it is to speak with you.”

  The perfect smile twitched. Was Karl playing a game? “No, what I mean to ask is, why were you arrested? And why are you still here in prison?”

  Karl cut to the heart of the matter. “I was arrested when I attempted to help my friends . . . my brothers.”

  “And who are these brothers? You can’t mean the Jews?”

  “There are others as well, also brothers. But, yes, I suppose I am arrested for standing for the rights of Jewish Germans.”

  The phrase Jewish-Germans sparked resentment in Dorfman. Jews were Jews in his eyes, and Germans were Aryans. He had been asserting that since his seminary days. “Karl,” he said in a patronizing voice, “aside from the fact that the Jews have been scientifically proven to be subhuman, was it not the Jews who killed Christ?”

  It was a trivial, ridiculous argument, laughable in its ignorance if it were not so dangerous and deadly. The reply came not from Karl, but from the Scripture verses he had memorized on his sixteenth birthday: “Then the governor’s soldiers took Jesus into the Praetorium and gathered the whole company of soldiers around him. They stripped him and put a scarlet robe on him, and then twisted together a crown of thorns and set it on his head. They put a staff in his right hand and knelt in front of him and mocked him. ‘Hail, king of the Jews, they said.’”

  Karl paused to respond to the astonished look on Dorfman’s face. “These were Roman soldiers. You may check if you doubt me. Matthew, chapter twenty-seven. ‘They spit on Him and took the staff and struck Him on the head again and again. After they had mocked Him, they took off the robe and put His own clothes on Him. Then they led Him away to crucify Him.’”

  Karl managed a slight smile. “Sound familiar? Easter service. Seems to me that the death of the Lord was the reason He came to this earth. I know you discount the Old Testament Scriptures, but Isaiah 53 speaks of the Messiah being offered for the sins of all mankind. Not just Jews—even pure Aryans like you may be saved, a free gift from the greatest Jew who ever lived.”

  Dofman’s face clouded with resentment. How dare this filthy criminal quote Scripture to him, a leader in the State Church! So this was the result when renegade Protestants strayed from church doctrine.

  He pulled up his seminary t
eaching to counter this heresy. “The church leaders believed the Jews should be slaves to Christians. Martin Luther himself—”

  “Is a sad example of the reality of human fallibility. Speak to me through the Scripture and we will have a match, Reverend Dorfman, but please do not quote Martin Luther to me. Or Saint Augustine. Or any of the rest. By now those men know how badly they erred. When the Day of the Lord comes, I do not want to be found quoting them.”

  The Rev. Gustav Dorman called in the guards to return Karl to his rightful place among the sinners and tax gatherers of the Reich. Perhaps he would come again one day, but he had not been prepared to meet such a skillful adversary.

  ***

  “You are still with us, preacher,” called up the young atheist from below Karl’s bunk. “What did you meet in there today?”

  Karl sighed. “I met a man who was wearing the robes of a great religious leader when Jesus came to Jerusalem. He saw the Lord and hated Him because Jesus was truly righteous.”

  The young man called up to Richard. “What is he saying?”

  Richard did not reply. He rolled over and fixed his dark eyes on Karl. “Tell him what you mean, Pastor Karl,” he said.

  “I mean that the religious leaders who crucify the Lord exist in every generation. They have been present in every age. I met a man today I can only pity. In the end his suffering will be much deeper than ours.”

  The atheist’s mocking tone was tempered by the edge of sadness in Karl’s voice. “And yet you tell us that God loves even a man like that. Even the Nazis He loves, you say?”

  Karl considered the challenge. It was a real question, worthy of reply. Could a just God care even for evil men? “He sees them as they will be if they don’t repent, Johann. He pities them. Remember your verse, ‘Jesus wept.’”

  ***

  Winston Churchill looked more like a bulldog than ever. His lower lip protruded angrily as he scowled down at the photograph on the coffee table in front of him. He picked it up by the corner and then let it fall back again.

  “It is good to see the sort of men we are dealing with,” he growled under his breath to Murphy. “I shall take this image with me into battle at the House of Commons.”

  Murphy passed him a long list containing the names of prominent men and women arrested in Germany on the night of November 9. Included on that list was the name of Anna’s sister and members of the Ibsen family. The list had been enclosed with the photograph of Thomas von Kleistmann. The implication was clear: the same sort of horrible death awaited those people who opposed Hitler unless they could be ransomed and released. Some names were already crossed off, killed by the Gestapo or yielded to Nazi pressure. Others were checked with a note that read:

  Familes of these prisoners are also missing. Spouses and children are held responsible for the crimes of relatives and subject to the same punishment as the “guilty.”

  This long list, obviously taken directly from secret Gestapo files, had been sent to John Murphy at great risk to whoever had sent it. The photograph had not been intended to harm Elisa or the children, but to warn Murphy. The envelope was addressed to Murphy. It was not meant to be seen by anyone but him and those he trusted.

  Churchill sighed and shook his head. Such a sight made even the Old Lion speechless. “Is the little boy all right?” He imagined the terror of a six-year-old in seeing such a thing.

  “Charles has seen too much already.” Murphy spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “There are a million Jewish and Christian Charleses living through this kind of thing, Winston—the children of men who are willing to die for the right even though nobody on this side of the line seems to care.” He stared at the image of Thomas and suddenly felt sorry that they had never met. “They must have someplace to go. Now. No more talk. It is too late for talking.” He slammed his fist down on the list. “Here is the picture of reality. This is the evil England is making peace with!”

  Winston Churchill’s eyes brimmed with emotion and resolve. “Bring Charles to the debate in Commons. For the sake of the ones he left behind, he must hear the final debate on the refugee question in Palestine. Even if we do not win, Murphy, one child must be a witness to his generation that we did battle against this blinding darkness.”

  ***

  This time Wolf was not late to Café Sacher. Lucy kept him waiting—not too long, only five minutes; but she made certain that her entrance was noticed. She did not look toward their corner table as she swept into the room. She played to the eyes of other men, certain that Wolf would notice their interest as well.

  He stood and pulled out her chair. His face displayed his jealousy as he resumed his place and finished off the wine in his glass.

  “You are late!” he snapped.

  She displayed her empty wrist. “The catch on my watch broke. I lost it today somewhere on the Ringstrasse.”

  “Lost it!” He leaned forward. “That was a very good watch! Expensive.”

  “Not good enough, or it would not have broken.”

  “You will not get another one.”

  “Then I will be late, won’t I, Wolf?” She could see that she was having an effect on him. His tanned complexion reddened with anger toward her. She knew she must be very careful in her game. “I thought of you . . . of who I belong to . . . and when I looked at my wrist, the watch was simply gone.” She shrugged. “I was disappointed, of course. But, you see, I think of you even without it, Wolf.”

  At this, he softened a bit. The hard line of his mouth curved up at the corner as he pondered her compliment. “Then you do not need another one.”

  “I need nothing at all to remind me.” Her voice was soft as she leaned in toward him and touched the back of his hand. “After all, I carry a little Wolf inside me.”

  At this, his indignation vanished entirely. She had played her cards well, and he rewarded her with his approval. “In that case, maybe you should have a new watch so you will never again keep this Wolf waiting, ja? I got the other from an old Jew on Franz Josef’s Kai. He was selling out. Said it was the finest. He was lying, no doubt, and I would have him arrested—”

  “Will you?” She tried not to let her concern show as he directed his anger to the old Jew who sold him the watch. Would her lie cause the arrest of an innocent man?

  “The fellow is already arrested. Rotting away somewhere.”

  “Because of me?” She was horrified.

  He laughed. “Such concern, Lucy! No. The fellow was accused of trying to smuggle diamonds, I think. Something like that. A fabricated charge, but reason enough for his entire stock to be Aryanized. I could have gotten your watch for nothing had I seen it coming.” He poured himself more wine. “That will teach me to trust a Jew.”

  Lucy’s conscience was relieved. She had not been the cause of an old man’s arrest. Of course, the old fellow was in prison anyway, no matter what the reason. Still, Lucy decided she would be more careful about her lies to Wolf. She sat silently, feigning interest as he continued his monologue of hatred against the Jews of Vienna.

  “They are worse here than in Germany, as a rule. At least at home they acted the part of German citizens. I had not thought much about them at home. But here in Vienna! It is no wonder the Führer hates them so. They laughed at him when he was a hungry student in this place, and now he is laughing at them.”

  The waiter placed onion soup before them. He inhaled the aroma and then cautiously took a spoonful. He might as well have been talking to himself, but Lucy continued to hold him with her gaze, to nod and smile at all the right pauses. She had learned to be the perfect audience.

  “Some fellow in the Gestapo is tipping them off, we think. We come to the door of a prominent Jew and find that he has slipped out the back the night before. Several rich ones have gotten away. Who knows what they have smuggled out with them? Himmler has taken the case away from the Gestapo and put it into my hands. I will find him, whoever he is.”

  “Well then, you will gain another rank
before the baby is born,” she said brightly, flattering his dreams of glory.

  “Yes. Yes. That is true.” He sipped another spoonful of soup. “I have narrowed the field down to half a dozen.” His eyes narrowed as he pictured the suspects and savored the flavor of an arrest. “Himmler says that ruthlessness is a quality to be admired when duty calls for it. And so I will cultivate that. Himmler will notice such a thing. Not even friendship matters compared to the good of the Reich.” He directed his preoccupied gaze to Lucy as if he had just noticed her presence across him. “You see how important this is to me.” The eyes hardened. “You would not ever betray me, lie to me. Would you, little fox?”

  She managed an indignant laugh. They had discussed this before. Wolf was not speaking of political betrayal or loyalty to the Nazi cause. “No man could come close to you,” she replied coyly. “Here, I promote you! You do not need to arrest any traitors to please me. I promote you to general of my bed. No, field marshal! Or, more true, you are my Führer, the leader of my country, Wolf.”

  He relaxed a bit, sitting back and swirling the deep red wine in his glass. “I did not like the way men looked at you when you came in.”

  “I cannot help how they look.”

  “Or the way you looked at them.”

  She shrugged. “Soon enough men will look at me and say, there goes another mother for the Reich!” She patted her stomach. “They can look all they like, and I will still be pregnant with your child.”

  “When you begin to show, then you go to the Lebensborn,” he announced sternly, though seemingly satisfied with her reply. She had managed to fend off the attack once again.