Danzig Passage (Zion Covenant)

by Bodie Thoene

  The entire city crawled with looters. No one attempted to stop the thieves. In the frantic scramble of Aryan citizens to snatch useful items from the bonfires, no one paid any attention to two soot-covered boys walking briskly toward New Church.

  Jacob prayed that they would not come face-to-face with anyone who knew them, who knew they were Jewish. In the past two years hardly a day had passed without some arrogant Hitler Youth gang confronting Jacob. Lately they had been careful not to challenge him without several members on hand to help out. He had beaten every boy his age in an eight-block radius. Tonight those familiar faces were nowhere to be seen. Jacob guessed, correctly, that they were busy in another neighborhood of Berlin.

  The people they passed on Friedrichstrasse were strangers to them. Jacob looked at the eager faces of these noble members of the super-race. Many of them, with their dark eyes and hair, fit the Nazi caricature of a Jew much better than either Mark or Jacob. Both boys were fair-skinned and fair-haired. Mark had curly hair, which was a sign of Jewish origin according to propaganda, but other than that, their faces were just faces. Jacob unconsciously touched his crooked nose, the nose of a street brawler. Together with his fierce green eyes, it marked him as a young man to be careful of.

  This dirt-caked, angry face cut a swath through the Aryan populace this morning. The defiance in his eyes made even grown men step around him. If anyone had looked down into the younger boy’s eyes, they would have been a different story. Confusion, shock, fear for his parents filled his face, marking him as a victim. But Jacob met every glance with an angry glare. Such a look could only exist in the eyes of a leader of the Hitler Youth. And so no one stopped them. No one asked why they were roaming the streets of Berlin at four in the morning. Their purpose was clear enough.

  ***

  “Be there!” Jacob slammed his fish on the locked door of New Church. “Be there!” he growled again impatiently.

  From the other side of the door he could just hear Lori Ibsen’s muffled voice. “Who is there?”

  “It’s me, Jacob Kalner. Me and Mark. Let us in!” He looked back nervously, hoping that no one had seen them scale the stone fence of the churchyard.

  He leaned heavily against the door, as if he could melt through the thick wood. Lori fumbled with the latch until it clicked open and the two boys fell into the church. Instantly a crowd gathered around them, firing questions from every side.

  “Where is Papa?”

  “Pastor Karl?”

  “Why did Richard and Leona not come with you?”

  “Are they following after?”

  Mark began to weep again. He shook with sobs, unable to speak, but giving the terrible answer by his tears.

  Frau Helen enfolded the little boy in her arms and gazed steadily into the sooty face of Jacob. “Where is my husband? Where is Pastor Karl? Did he make it to your flat?”

  Jacob nodded. Overcome with exhaustion, he groped for a place to sit down. “He came,” Jacob said dully. “He was going to bring us all back here.”

  “Then the Gestapo . . .” Mark sniffed and buried his face against Frau Helen’s sleeve. “They banged on the door and broke it. They hurt Mama. I heard them.”

  “There was no chance for them to get away,” Jacob explained. “They arrested Mama and Papa and Pastor Karl. Mark and I went out through the skylight. Over the rooftops.”

  Lori stepped forward. Even in the dim light of the church Jacob could see an angry glint in her eyes. Her fists were clenched as if she wanted to hit someone. This was one of the things Jacob admired about Lori Ibsen. If she had been born a boy, no doubt they would have fought each other. Or perhaps they would have fought side by side against the Hitler Youth. This morning Lori looked strong in spite of her slender figure. “Where have they taken them?” she demanded. “We will go after them. Tell the Gestapo they have made a mistake. Your parents are Christians. My father is a pastor. They have made a mistake.”

  From a dark pew a woman snorted in ridicule at the words. “The Nazis do not make mistakes. It does not matter, Lori, who is a Christian. What matters is who is not a Nazi.”

  Frau Helen stared up at the rose window above the altar as though there might be an answer written there for her. “What to do, Lord?” she whispered.

  Jacob said sternly, “You cannot go out there, Frau Helen. You must not think of it.”

  “But if I can find where they have taken them—”

  Mark clung tighter to her. Jacob shook his head in disagreement. “We have seen what they are doing. Sooner or later the Nazis will grow tired, but right now they are still wrecking everything in sight, arresting everyone who questions them—not only Jews, do you understand? We should stay here. If they release my mother, she will come here and tell us. If Pastor Karl is set free, he will come home. We should stay here.”

  Jacob had not mentioned the possibility of his father being released. That would not happen—not without payment of a big fine, like the last time. But the Kalner family had no money left to pay the Nazi jailers; Richard Kalner might never be released. For Mark’s sake Jacob did not say these things, but all night long the terrible reality of the situation had played over and over in his mind.

  Frau Helen let her breath out slowly. She put her hand on Lori’s arm, then touched her face. Lori’s cheeks were wet with tears of frustration.

  “Jacob is right, Lori,” she said softly. “Your father will come here. We must be here to meet him when he comes.”

  ***

  Two cots stood in the newest tent in Hanita—one for Captain Orde, the other for Moshe Sachar. Moshe crept quietly to his cot. He was certain that the English captain heard him and was aware of his presence. Nothing, it seemed, slipped past Orde. And yet Orde pretended not to hear Moshe until he slipped beneath his blankets.

  Then, as Moshe stared up at the black canvas, Orde spoke.

  “Well?”

  Moshe frowned. “Well what?”

  “What did they think of tonight’s mission?”

  “They are somewhat impressed. Somewhat suspicious. They definitely think you are a real . . . what is the American word?”

  “Nut.”

  “That’s it. A religious fanatic.”

  Orde laughed for the first time in days. “Good. Let them be a bit intimidated.”

  Moshe snorted his disapproval. “And what is all this about not taking an atheist out on patrol? You cannot treat these men like students in Shabbat school! You sound more . . . fanatic than my brother. And that says a lot.”

  “I feel strongly about it.”

  “Ridiculous.”

  “I would hate for my Jewish brothers to be killed and end up in the same unpleasant fix as the Muslims we must fight. I pity even the Holy Strugglers of the Mufti. They will wake up dead, and then it will be too late for them.”

  “You should have been a preacher, not a soldier,” Moshe scoffed. “Such nonsense will not go down well with the Jews of Hanita. Or anywhere else in the settlements. If you pity that dead assassin who killed the girl tonight, keep such misplaced pity to yourself!”

  “If men’s hearts were turned toward God, there would be no need for soldiers. Then I would be a preacher. As it is, the world is a rotten place. And I am speeding men to hell against my will.”

  Moshe let out an angry laugh. He did not like this conversation. It was too much like the talks he had once had with Eli. Love or duty. How to reconcile the two? “Then why are you here?”

  “Because forces exist that will push you Jews into the sea. A darkness much bigger than the Arab Mufti or even Hitler would destroy every last living son of the Covenant.”

  “That is our problem, Christian!” Moshe propped himself up on his elbows. He was genuinely angry now—maybe not at Orde, but at the governments who looked away while the darkness pressed nearer to the Jewish people.

  “No. It is my problem. Because I am a Christian and a Zionist who believes you will have your nation. God has promised it, and that is why Satan fight
s so hard against it. And so I must fight against those who seek to discredit God’s promises.”

  This perspective made very good sense from Orde’s point of view, but still it left Moshe feeling frustrated and bitter. After all, had Eli not believed in the same promises and died at the hands of an Arab mob, anyway? Where was the justice? Where was this great God of Israel? Moshe thought all these things but did not say them.

  “Don’t push us. Don’t push these men. If they are killed and go to hell fighting Arab gangs, that is not your business. This world is hell enough for us. We have no homeland. No peace. No safety. What could be worse? Leave your God out of it, I say! Teach us to fight, and we will make our own heaven here in our homeland!”

  Orde did not reply for a long time. Moshe wondered if he had drifted off to sleep in the middle of the conversation. Then he said, “Without the Lord, Moshe, all the training I give you will not make a difference. With God you will defeat them with clay pots and trumpets; the sea will open before you, and you will walk on dry land.”

  “Then we won’t need you.” Moshe lay down hard on his pillow.

  “Yes. You will need me. Until you believe what I tell you is true, you do need me to teach you to pray and to fight.”

  10

  A Day of Mourning

  Ambassador Hopewell slept soundly in his seat as the plane passed over the border of the Reich into Holland.

  Theo glanced at him as the drone of the engines changed to a different tone during the descent. From G to C, Theo thought as he recalled the way Anna interpreted all engine noise into a musical scale. The thought made him smile for the first time in days. He checked his watch and wondered if Anna had heard of the riots in Germany. If word of the pogrom reached England before he did, Anna would be frantic with worry.

  The landing on the grass airfield was rough and bumpy. Hopwell still did not awaken. Nor did he stir when Theo got off the plane and limped toward the small terminal.

  “Only thirty minutes,” the pilot called after him.

  Theo waved in acknowledgment, then hurried to make the telephone connection with London. Twenty minutes passed before the operator came on the line to announce that the call to London was through. Anna’s voice followed, surprisingly clear, clear enough for Theo to know that she had heard what was happening in Germany.

  “Oh! Theo, darling! Where are you? Berlin?” She sounded frightened. “Are you all right? Are you with Helen and Karl?”

  Theo dreaded telling her that he had not dared to even go see her sister and brother-in-law. A visit from him might have put them in jeopardy. “I am coming home,” he replied, trying very hard to sound light. “Just refueling in Holland. We’ll be in London by morning.” He paused, uncertain if she was still on the line.

  He did not need to tell her about Helen. “You could not see my sister,” she said, disappointed but understanding.

  “It would not have been safe for them to have me as a visitor, Anna. But I left your letter with the British Embassy. They are clear about the situation and will see she gets it.”

  “Did you see what they are doing in Berlin? Is it true?”

  “I saw enough, Anna. It’s true—whatever you have heard in England, and more besides.” His voices sounded hollow and very tired.

  “They have gone mad!” she cried. “Oh, Theo! Thank God you are safe! But the others . . . our friends. My family! What will come to them?”

  The pilot rapped loudly on the glass of the phone booth. “She’s all fueled, Mr. Lindheim. Two minutes.” He held up two fingers and then hurried back to the aircraft.

  Theo cradled the telephone, suddenly desperate to talk to her, to comfort her and be comforted. Only Anna would know what he was feeling tonight. Only she could soothe away his sense of hopeless frustration and personal failure. “So much to tell you, Anna. Meet me at the airfield in London. Call Murphy and Elisa. We can breakfast together.”

  At those words the tension left her voice. Theo was all right. He was coming home. Breakfast together! Never had such an ordinary thing sounded so wonderful.

  ***

  The buzz of the telephone awakened Charles from his restless sleep. He snuggled closer to Elisa and lay very still to listen to Murphy’s raspy whisper.

  “From Amsterdam? Amsterdam? How did he sound? Good. Yes. Of course. I’ll run by the office and then we can go together. Right. Thanks for calling.”

  Murphy replaced the receiver, picked up the alarm clock, and peered at it for a moment before Elisa spoke.

  “That was Mother?” she asked, her voice foggy.

  “Uh-huh. Go back to sleep.”

  “It’s about Papa, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. He’s on his way back to England.”

  “From where?” she asked, sounding very awake.

  There was a long pause as Murphy considered how much to tell her. What would it hurt for her to know about Theo’s trip now that he was safe? “He has been in Berlin. Negotiating for economic relief for the refugees.”

  Elisa raised up on her elbow and considered the news. Then she lay back down and stared up at the dark ceiling. “I thought so. I could see it on Mother’s face. You really don’t need to keep everything from me, you know. I am not that fragile.”

  “I didn’t know about it either, not until last night.” His voice cracked. “A note was brought to the office. Harvey Terrill brought it along with the news of the riots.”

  “A note?” She put an arm protectively over Charles, who still pretended to be sleeping.

  “From a German. His description didn’t sound familiar, but I don’t doubt his message.”

  “Which is?”

  “We’re being watched. I’ve asked Freddie if he can move into the studio downstairs just to keep an eye on you when I’m gone. And . . . I want you to carry the gun.” He cleared his throat nervously, as though he expected her to argue.

  “Okay. If you think it is necessary, Murphy.”

  “You know how to use it?”

  She gave a short, sarcastic laugh. “Well, I can load it and pull the trigger. At least I could make a little noise with it if I had to.”

  Murphy sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Elisa . . . those other notes . . . the ones from Paris?”

  She listened in silence, considering the unsigned message from Paris that had told her about the death of Thomas von Kleistmann. “What about them?”

  “Have you put them . . . away somewhere?”

  “No. I thought you had them.”

  “Yes. On my desk. They’re gone now. Do you think the boys could have maybe . . . I don’t know. Maybe they took a scrap of paper to write on or draw on?”

  Charles’s eyes opened wide as he heard Murphy’s question. He had never taken anything from Murphy’s big desk. Louis would not take anything either. They remembered their father’s desk in Hamburg. It was fun to play under, but verboten to touch anything on it or in it!

  “No!” Charles sat up beside Elisa and shook his head in horror at the thought that Murphy could imagine the brothers would take even a scrap of paper without permission. “Me an’ Lou . . . we don’ take nothing!”

  Charles’s response broke up the discussion. Murphy switched on the lamp and blinked at the rumpled little boy in their bed. “What are you doing here?” he asked gruffly.

  “He had a dream,” Elisa explained. “I thought he was sleeping.”

  “Go get in your own bed, Charles,” Murphy ordered, an unusually harsh command. He was angry that Charles had heard about the gun and about tonight’s communication from the German and the missing notes. Murphy looked sternly at Elisa as Charles slipped from the covers and padded quickly out of their room. The boy closed the door behind him as Murphy demanded. Still, Murphy’s unhappy voice drifted after him. “Why didn’t you tell me the kid was. . . .”

  The rest of the night Charles lay awake, considering what it all meant.

  ***

  The first soft light penetrated the stained-glass
windows of New Church. A patchwork of colors and images spread over the sleeping fugitives like a quilt. Unbroken windows meant safety, Lori thought as she looked out over the pews where men and women lay stretched out, head to head, foot to foot.

  From the choir loft beside the huge pipe organ, Lori could see them all. Her mother slept with James at the opposite end of the front pew. Jacob Kalner and Mark had climbed into the choir loft to tell Lori everything they had seen out there, but now they, too, had dropped off into the deep dreamless sleep of exhaustion. Only Lori remained awake to watch, to stand vigil and pray until her father came. She did not doubt that he would come. In her mind she could imagine an angel loosening his chains and setting him free just like the story in the book of Acts. She did not want to be like the doubters who questioned such a miracle. When he came home, she would run to the door and throw it open and tell him she had believed all along.

  But she had not expected the Gestapo to come to New Church. No one who had taken asylum there expected the crash of fists and gun butts against the door.

  From her perch, Lorie could see the faces of the fugitives as they raised up in sleepy confusion. Fear flooded their eyes as realization struck them. The same fear rooted Lori to her seat.

  Jacob Kalner was on his feet in a moment. At first Lori thought he would leap over the rail and fight the intruders, but instead he grabbed Mark by the arm and took Lori by her hand. Dragging them up the steps toward the pipe organ, he warned them to be quiet. No one must know where they hid!

  The outer doors splintered and split open. Clear light washed in, dulling the colors of the windows with harsh reality. It did not matter if the windows were broken or intact. No one was safe, not even here in New Church.

  ***

  Inside, the giant organ bellows smelled of dust and moldy leather. Lori, Mark, and Jacob crouched close together inside its dark interior.

  They could hear everything clearly as the threats of the Gestapo officer ricocheted off the vaulted ceiling of the church and permeated every corner with arrogance and anger. “Why have you sheltered enemies of the Reich? Why have you not allowed your children to join the Hitler Jugend? Are you also an enemy of the Reich, Frau Ibsen?”