by Bodie Thoene
Karl let himself be pulled along by James. He covered his nose and mouth and squinted against the sting of the smoke. His lungs ached. His mind reeled with the unreality of what was taking place tonight in Berlin.
James and Lori were coughing hard as the four tumbled into the church and slammed the door, bolting it securely. For an instant total darkness overwhelmed them. He heard the sound of a woman weeping softly, the hacking cough of a man, the sniffle of a child—hollow echoes in the vast church.
The light of the fires penetrated the thick smoke and filtered through the high arches of the stained-glass windows. Karl wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. Through the soft hues of red and blue glass, he could see the group sitting in the front pews. Men and women clung to one another, their heads raised as they listened to the last triumphant cheers of the mobs.
Still holding tightly to James’ hand, Karl walked toward them. Their world burned tonight, these Jews of his own congregation. These people of the Covenant, believers in Messiah, had become the hated victims of Hitler’s Storm Troopers. On such heads fell all the blame of one foolish boy’s actions in Paris. And Pastor Karl Ibsen felt powerless to help them in the face of such vengeance.
He looked toward the plain wooden cross suspended above the altar of the church he had pastored for ten years. He had watched as other Protestant pastors had been arrested, led away, and replaced by state-appointed clergymen. He had privately anguished while he publicly distanced himself from the politics that ravaged the church in Germany. He had been successful in walking the tightrope. He had managed to shield the Jews of New Church. But tonight the tightrope had been cut. A yawning abyss opened beneath him. For the sake of his eternal soul, he must plunge over the edge.
“What should we do?” croaked the voice of Henry Reingolt as he put his arm gently around the shoulders of his wife. Their three-year-old son lay sleeping in his mother’s arms, oblivious to the terror of the night.
Karl sat down slowly. James sat beside him, while Lori stood gazing solemnly at the rose window that seemed alive with light and movement.
“What shall we do, Pastor?” Reingolt asked again. Did Pastor Karl have no answer for them? He had not failed them before now. When the racial laws had begun to destroy their lives, Pastor Karl had found ways to help. The church had eased some of the pain for them. But what was to happen now? They had not thought it could come to this.
“All of you stay here,” Karl answered in a low voice.
“Will they kill us?” asked Reingolt’s wife in a terrified voice.
“For tonight you will stay here,” Karl said. “This will pass. They cannot keep on with it forever. Tomorrow we will decide what we must do. Perhaps we can find a temporary place for the children with the Protestant charity in Prague, just until things return to sanity. But you are all safe here tonight.” More cheers from the mob penetrated the windows and shook confidence in his statement. No one spoke until the cheering died away. “You will stay here,” Karl said firmly. “I will be back by morning.’
“Back?” Helen sat forward and took her husband’s hand, as if to prevent him from leaving. He caught her gaze and held it in his steady brown eyes until her fear and resistance melted into understanding. Of course he could not stay here in safety when others of the congregation remained in grave danger. He must go to them, help them—if he could.
James clung to his father’s arm. “Let me go with you, Papa,” the child pleaded.
“You must help your mother, James,” Karl said gently.
Only Lori was silent. She stood with her head raised slightly as she listened to the sounds of vengeance outside in the streets. Karl had not noticed how his daughter had grown into a young woman. Tonight he looked at her as if he had not seen her at all since she was a little girl. Her thick blond hair, braided, framed an oval face much like her mother’s. Such a night, such a crisis, demanded that children suddenly become adults. Perhaps that had happened to Lori. Her blue eyes mirrored concern, but it was clear from her glance she knew why he must go. She nodded almost imperceptibly, as if to give him her blessing.
“The Kalners, Father,” she said. “I telephoned. There was no answer. Please see if they are all right.”
Karl stood. Suddenly he understood his daughter’s unwavering agreement with his decision to go out in the midst of the riots. The Kalner family—Richard and Leona Kalner, members of the church, are Jewish by birth. Their son Mark, like James, is ten years old. Jacob, three days younger than Lori, is handsome, athletic. Is he also interested in Lori’s safety? Karl wondered.
Helen reached up and took her husband’s hand. She whispered the names of other members of the congregation who had not made it to the church. “We will pray, Karl.”
He nodded, brushed her cheek with his lips, then hurried out the side door of the church into the unnatural night.
***
Leona Kalner had long since removed the family name from the tiny window above the mail slot. These days it was better not to display a Jewish name in any neighborhood in Berlin.
There had been other apartments before this one when Leona had been careless; she had placed their name above the mail slot. As flies swarmed toward death, members of the neighborhood Hitler Youth converged to beat her sons as they walked home from school.
Perhaps tonight she imagined some safety in anonymity. But there was none. The Gestapo kept a complete file on the Kalner family, as it did on every Jew in the Reich. The fact that they were members of New Church made no difference. Days before, the yellow card bearing the name KALNER, RICHARD: JUDEN had been plucked easily from a file containing 500,000 records of potential enemies of the State.
Being a convicted criminal as well as a Jew, Doktor Richard Kalner’s name and most recent address appeared on the list. The vacant window above the mail slot made no difference at all.
From the first broadcast of Ernst vom Rath’s death, Richard had resigned himself to what the long night must bring. Had Hitler not spoken of reprisals that would take place against every Jew in the Reich in such an event? “The entire Jewish race will be held responsible for the rash act of even one Jew,” Hitler’s voice had growled for all the world to hear. No nation had challenged such a policy. Therefore no one could be surprised at the ferocity of Nazi vengeance for the murder of one of their own by a young Jew in Paris.
The apartment was lit by the fires that raged through all Berlin. Jacob was banished to the attic to hide with ten-year-old Mark. The two boys had protested, saying that they should stay downstairs and fight the Nazis, to defend their few remaining possessions.
“You are the only possessions we have that matter,” Richard Kalner had explained. “Do not be so brave, Jacob, or they will succeed in destroying everything.”
Leona, who maintained faith in the nameless mail slot, held out hope. “Maybe they will not come here. It is just a precaution. Do as your father says.”
Fully clothed, dressed for the cold November night, Jacob and Mark crouched in the narrow crawl space that led to the roof. If the Gestapo came, they were instructed to flee to New Church for refuge.
A small skylight above them provided ventilation for the attic and access to the steep roof. The dirty panes of glass reflected the blaze of Berlin’s great synagogue, illuminating the boys’ hiding place.
For hours they had listened in silence as the orgy of violence rolled over the city. A dozen times the phone rang. Richard did not answer, fearing the Gestapo might be checking.
Mark studied the shadowed features of his brother. In the strange light, Jacob looked much older than sixteen. His nose, broken in a fight with a gang of Hitler Youth, gave his face the look of a prize fighter. This distinction, along with his athletic build and large, thick hands, had earned him the nickname Max, after the German boxer Max Schmeling. Even after Schmeling had been soundly beaten by the American Negro, Joe Louis, Jacob still enjoyed being called Max. He bore the title proudly, as if it signified knighthood.
&nb
sp; Mark deferred to his brother’s wishes. “Max,” the younger boy whispered at last, “you think the Gestapo has forgotten?”
As if the mention of the Gestapo might draw them to the Kalner residence, Jacob silenced Mark with a frown and a finger to his lips. It did not matter that Father and Mother were just below them; Jacob was in charge.
“But they have passed us by,” Mark began again. He was tired of this cramped position. His back hurt, and he wanted to go to bed.
Jacob nudged him hard. “Shut up, I said.” Then with a jerk of his head he indicated the soot-covered skylight that led to the steep shale roof. His gesture seemed to say that the Nazi Storm Troopers and the Gestapo were everywhere tonight, maybe even prowling over the rooftops, perhaps hiding outside the skylight, where they could listen for the whispers of concealed Jews.
The younger brother’s jaw jutted slightly forward in resentment. His eyes stung from the smoke that drifted into the attic. Mark wanted to believe that the Nazis were not coming tonight. Maybe they had forgotten to add the Kalner family to their list of Jews.
But Jacob did not believe in miracles. The long night was far from over.
Mark closed his eyes and leaned against a rafter. He listened to the voices of his father and mother below. He could not understand what they were saying, but the fear in their voices was unmistakable. Outside, a truck rumbled past the building. Far away men were shouting. Why do Nazis always shout? Mark wondered. Everyone can hear them easily enough without the shouting.
For a time, Mark listened to the rustle of an unseen mouse in the corner of the attic. They had disturbed its sleep, invaded its home—just like the Nazis.
Opening one eye, he could see that Jacob also leaned against a rafter. His eyes were closed. Not even fear had kept him awake. Mark followed his brother’s example and finally let himself drift into an uneasy sleep.
5
Retribution
From his position at the punch bowl, Murphy conceded that Elisa had been right all along about the perfect acoustics of the main room in the Red Lion House. Of course, tonight’s musicians were a world away from the classical long-hair types she originally had in mind to play for the party. Famous and much-loved by the radio fans in the States, the trio had begun to make a mark in Europe.
In front of the bay windows of the crowded room, D’Fat Lady Jazz Trio belted out the raucous melody of a Fats Waller song. A massive large-mouthed black woman in a shiny red dress rocked and swayed and tapped her feet until the oak plank floors vibrated. Her eyes widened coyly as she sang, “Yo’ feet’s too big!”
Charles sat cross-legged on the floor, just an arm’s length from the tapping red patent leather shoes. Half a dozen other children who had come with their parents squealed with delight as the ebony songstress reached down to pluck off the tiny shoes of an eight-year-old girl. The woman held them up with the musical explanation, “Oh, ba-by! Yo’ feet’s too big!”
Party hats askew, faces with laughter, the children howled and held up their feet, waving them in the air. The laughter of Charles, clear and bell-like, made Murphy laugh, too. He had never seen the child so joyful and without care, never seen his bright blue eyes so free of pain.
Murphy was glad they had gone on as if nothing had happened in Paris. International crises seemed a small matter compared to the happy face of Charles. Elisa and Anna had both squared their shoulders and shaken off the news. Elisa had not mentioned it again. Whatever foreboding she felt was well concealed.
Elisa, radiant, wore a royal blue satin evening dress with a trim waist that had made her grimace when he helped her with the buttons. “There’s not enough room in here for two.” She had smiled over her shoulder as Murphy kissed her back and slipped his arms around her. In another week or so Elisa would have to hang up this particular dress until after the baby was born. For the moment, however, she was still a knockout—smooth cream poured into a slender blue mold.
Murphy eyed her approvingly as she chatted with several members of the press corps. He was glad she was his wife; otherwise just seeing her would be an agony of longing.
He caught her eye and touched his hand to an imaginary hat in salute.
She raised her glass slightly in acknowledgment of his admiring glance.
He pointed up toward the bedroom with his thumb and raised his eyebrows questioningly.
She rolled her eyes in disapproval and turned to chat with the round-faced Betty-Boop wife of Harvey Terrill.
Ah well, Murphy thought, I’ll try again later. After all, Elisa can’t unbutton the dress without my help. He grinned and handed a cup of punch to the vicar of the little stone church across the square.
“Lovely party.” Vicar Hight raised the cup as if to smell the punch. “Interesting music.” He blinked toward the gyrating trio who pounded out a rhythm the likes of which had never been heard before in Red Lion Square. “Wherever did you find such an unusual group?”
The fame of D’ Fat Lady in America had obviously not reached the ears of the astonished vicar yet. In Paris, crowds stood in line for hours to hear the group. But this was London, after all.
Murphy was glad they had included the neighborhood cleric on the guest list; otherwise the noise might have been a subject for his next sermon. He seemed quite taken with the energetic performance of D’ Fat Lady.
“They were playing at a little club in Soho. Trying to earn enough money to get back to New York on a cattle boat,” Murphy joked.
The vicar’s eyebrows raised a row of furrows on his high forehead. “Most unusual! Most, most, unusual!” He sipped his punch and nodded his long, thin head in time to the music.
“Glad you approve.” Murphy refilled the clergyman’s cup and looked around the room at the faces of the guests. Nothing like a pastor or two to add respectability to a get-together.
Elisa’s orchestra friends listened with a sort of stunned astonishment. The music seemed totally improvised and, after all, members of the London Philharmonic did not often visit the kind of places D’ Fat Lady Trio performed. This was a novel experience. Perhaps some quietly wondered how a fellow like John Murphy had ended up with a musician like Elisa, and how such a mismatched union could last. But for the most part, cellists and horn players and violinists thumped him on the back and told him what a smashing couple they made, and that they were certain to liven things up in London.
Murphy’s friends put a different emphasis on the situation. “How’d he ever end up with such a classy dame? You think she’s got sisters?”
Elisa had no sisters, but her mother still turned heads. Anna moved among the guests, speaking first in English and then in German, French, Czech, or Polish. Whatever nationality was represented here tonight, Anna always had a warm comment on the tip of her tongue. The only people she could not understand were the members of the jazz trio. This brand of English, she confessed to Murphy, was quite beyond her reach. Even the language of their keyboard was totally unfamiliar to her.
Anna stood to one side of the piano and shook her head in awe. Charles and Louis sat beside Philbert Washington, the piano player, watching his ebony fingers fly over the ivory keys while he tap-danced at the same time.
“I will ask Nana to teach me to play piano like this,” Louis said gravely in German. “This kind of piano I like.”
At that, Anna rolled her eyes in mock dismay and retreated to the kitchen to check on the supply of hors d’oeuvres.
Charles, on the other hand, was fascinated by Hiram Jupiter, the trumpet player. He held the shiny silver instrument to his lips and bent back and back until the trumpet pointed up at the ceiling. Notes wailed out like a human voice, surpassed in volume only by the voice of the Fat Lady herself.
It was only a matter of time before the less stodgy of the orchestra members had American jazz pounding in their blood. One by one, instruments were unsheathed—trumpets, trombones, clarinets. And D’ Fat Lady Trio grew in numbers as well as in volume.
In the center of all of it was Dr.
Patrick Grogan, Charles’ American speech therapist. To the amazement of everyone, the normally serious scholar borrowed a fiddle and joined in with what he termed “Irish-American jazz.” Red hair flying and face flushed, he danced a jig and whooped as loud as anyone! Charles decided that he would never be intimidated by Doc Grogan again after such a lively show. Strange how this music cracked the reserve of the most sedate personalities!
This evening was a wonder, a miracle. The London Times society correspondent promised a stunning write-up. “Who would have imagined that a benefit for refugees could turn out to be the party of the season?” he babbled ecstatically. “Surely you could not have found this group penniless in a club in Soho? A cattle boat to New York, you say? Good heavens!”
Murphy then confessed that the group was second only to Glenn Miller in U.S. popularity. The correspondent seemed unclear about the identity of Glenn Miller, so Murphy let the Soho story stand.
When the Fat Lady finished her song, the applause was deafening. Charles and Louis cheered the stiffly bowing orchestra members who now flanked the trio. Rowdy pressmen and the less expressive guests joined together in a shout of approval and a cry for more. The trio had grown to a band of twenty-two.
The Fat Lady leaned down and cupped her big pink palms around the chins of Charles and Louis. “Oh, babies, so you likes D’ Fat Lady’s singin!?”
The twins nodded vigorously, their bright eyes filled with the wonder of warm chocolate skin and hair black and curly like a lamb and lips that split the happy face in a dazzling smile.
“Would you babies like fo’ Fat Lady t’ sing somepin’ jes’ fo’ you?”
Murphy thought the blond heads might bob off the shoulders of Charles and Louis as the boys nodded enthusiastically.
The Fat Lady had so many teeth! She laughed and showed them all. She dedicated the next song to “Charlie” and “Louie,” who both blushed with pride at the attention. Although the vast majority of those at the party were still unclear as to who D’ Fat Lady was and where the group had come from, Charles and Louis had become fans listening to the radio in New York. Finally meeting D’ Fat Lady in person was more than either had expected, it seemed.
