Danzig Passage (Zion Covenant)

by Bodie Thoene

  The little man drew himself up, suddenly confident in his role as advisor to this august body of Nazi leaders. “Simply this: German companies did not wish to carry all the risk themselves. So part of the risk is also borne by foreign insurers in countries like France and Belgium and Switzerland, you see?”

  Heads nodded in unison.

  Hildegard continued his explanation. “We would like to make a point, Herr Field Marshall, that we must not be hindered in fulfilling the obligations the contracts call for. Even to Jews. We must make certain that there is no loss of confidence in the German insurance companies, or our foreign companies will pull out. It would be a black spot on the honor of German insurance companies.”

  A few moments passed in thought. Göring sucked his cheek and toyed with a pencil. “It would not blacken your honor if I issued a decree, a law sanctioned by the state, forbidding you to pay.”

  Heydrich leaned forward, a spark of amusement in his cold pale eyes. “Why not this? The insurance may be granted, but as soon as it is paid to the Jews, it will be confiscated. That way we will have saved face.”

  The spidery insurance executive clasped his hands together and nodded vigorously. “I am inclined to agree with Gerneral Heydrich.”

  At last Göring grinned, then laughed. “You’ll have to pay, then. But since it is the Aryan people who really suffered the damage, there will be a lawful decree forbidding you to make payment to the Jews. After all, it is the Jews who incited the demonstration, is it not?” Göring pointed his meaty finger at the little man. “By my decree, you will not make payment to the Jews, but to the Ministry of Finance.”

  “Aha!” cried Hildegard with relief. The solution was so simple.

  Göring continued with a sharp warning. “As Minister of Finance, I will tell you that what is done with the money is my business.”

  Others rushed to join in the economic reprisals against the Jewish victims of Kristal Nacht. Schmer, a junior member of the Finance Ministry, spoke up for the first time. “Your Excellency, I should like to make a proposal. I understand that this morning the Führer decreed also that a fine of one billion marks is to be levied against the Jews for provoking the German people into demonstrating against them. Perhaps with that fine, the insurance companies could be refunded?”

  Göring balked at the very thought that any money extracted from the Jews might be given to any entity but the Reich Ministry of Finance, which he headed. “I would not dream of refunding the insurance companies,” he blustered. He turned to Hildegard. “That money belongs to the state. You will fulfill your obligations, you may count on that!”

  Göring looked pleased; suddenly all the destruction of property had turned to advantage for the Four-Year Economic Plan he had struggled with. Suddenly, through the insurance payoff and the fine of one billion marks against the Jews, the coffers of his Ministry of Finance were filled. No longer did he need to consider economic plans like the one proposed by Theo Lindheim. No, the Reich was free to discard outright the scheme that would have allowed Jews to emigrate with a portion of their wealth in return for trade agreements between Germany and the Western nations.

  Göring muttered under his breath. “If those bleeding hearts in England and America wish to have the Jews, they must take them as paupers.” He raised his eyes to the group. “Not one penny will be taken out of the Reich. We have shown the Jews their way out, eh? They will leave this country through a wall of fire.”

  13

  Night Squad

  From across the street, Alfie watched as men worked to nail boards across the doors and low windows on New Church. Signs with the crooked cross on them were nailed up also. Alfie could not read very well, but Mama had taught him some words like Stop and Go and No and Danger and Verboten! Forbidden! It was the biggest word Alfie knew, and he had been very proud when he learned it. It kept him from walking on the grass in the parks and going in the wrong door.

  When the Hitler-men made laws about the Jews, another word went up with Verboten—the word Juden. Signs everywhere said Jews Forbidden! Alfie had learned the word Juden, too, because Mama said that otherwise he might only see the word Forbidden and think he could not enter into a place. He was not a Jew, and so he could go in even though the word Forbidden was written on a sign.

  The sky was getting darker, and Alfie looked at the Nazi signs all over New Church—the word Verboten painted with a lot of other words. He waited as two men hammered up the last sign. On the top was the crooked cross, then letters and words:

  CLOSED BY ORDER OF THE REICH GOVERNMENT FOR VIOLATION OF RACE LAW AND STATUTES CONCERNING ILLEGAL PROTECTION OF CRIMINAL JEWS. TRESPASSING FORBIDDEN.

  Among all the letters, Alfie could make out those two words that Mama said he could ignore: JEWS . . . FORBIDDEN.

  The sign was not for Alfie because he was not a Jew. The church was boarded up, but the cemetery where Mama lay in the stone shed was not closed. For the first time since last night, Alfie felt good again. He had crackers in his pocket, and over the fence he could see the top of the white stone building where all the Halder family was dead together under the same roof.

  The men loaded their ladders and tools into the back of a truck and drove away. They did not see Alfie looking at the graveyard and the place where Mama lay. Other cars drove past, but they did not notice him as he walked across the street and into the little park beside New Church. He followed the wall along the side of the church. Stopping at the metal gate, he shook it hard, but it was locked. It did not matter; Alfie knew another way into the churchyard—a secret he and Jamie kept because of hide-and-seek. No one could find them when they played around the church because they were the only ones who knew.

  At the rear of New Church stood the shed where the gardener kept his tools, built almost against the wall that enclosed the churchyard. Between the shed and the wall was a space where Jamie could scoot through easily. It was harder for Alfie because he was big, but just like old times, he dropped to his hands and knees and crawled into the space. A plank covered a hole that went right through the wall and into the cemetery. Grown-ups did not know about it because the slab of an old tombstone leaned back and covered the opening.

  Alfie laughed when he crawled through into the churchyard. He felt the same kind of happy feeling that always came to him when he and Jamie ran to hide, and nobody could ever find them! Alfie hadn’t played with Jamie in a long time, and now Jamie was gone, but Alfie remembered how to do it and where to go.

  Alfie knew where to hide. It was not really a game anymore, but he decided that maybe he did not want to be found or arrested after all. This felt good! He felt smart!

  He picked his way carefully through the headstones and the other square stone sheds where families liked to be dead together. He had one more secret that he had shared with Jamie, a secret better than the hole in the wall behind the tombstone.

  The place where Mama was buried stood just a little ways in back of the church. It was square like a big stone box. HALDER was carved in the stone above an iron gate that opened into a room where the Halders were stored in the walls behind stone partitions.

  Alfie touched the gate and looked in. Mama had told him not to be afraid of this place. Six generations of Halders slept here, waiting until Jesus would come wake them up. She explained that generations were grandmothers and grandfathers who lived a long time before Alfie, and that one day they would be alive again and very pleased to meet Alfie. He looked forward to that and thought how fine it would be if Jesus came and everyone woke up while he was there.

  “Hello, Mama,” he whispered, leaning his head against the bars.

  Mama’s place was the very top space against the back wall, right above Papa’s space. Her name was carved in the stone covering that hid the coffin: IRENE HALDER. Papa’s name was also carved on the stone that covered his space: ALFRED HALDER.

  But here was the secret Alfie had shared with Jamie: Papa’s space was empty. He had disappeared in a shipwreck, and so they
could not put him in his place to wait for Jesus. Mama just had the name carved there so it would look as if Papa was there. A memorial, she told Alfie. A way to remember Papa.

  Alfie clung to the bars and looked at their names. He was glad he had come back here. He cried a little bit, but not because he was sad. He cried because he was happy that someday for sure they would all wake up and they could hug and laugh and talk about good things.

  It was almost dark when Alfie reached his hand up on the stone ledge above the gate. He knew just where the key was. It was long and heavy and rust red, just like the last time Alfie and Jamie had used it.

  Alfie unlocked the gate. The hinges groaned inward, and he stepped into the echoing little room. Then he closed the gate behind him and locked it tight. Now Alfie was safe. He had come home to Mama, just like the policeman said, and he wouldn’t tell anyone where he was. This was his place. There were lots of empty chambers where he could hide if someone came. And in the back, in an alcove, a square stone trapdoor opened to a chamber below. There were much older Halders down there, and it was damp and musty. Mama never went down there, but Jamie and Alfie had explored it all with a tickle of fear and excitement in their stomachs.

  This chamber held the most wonderful secret of all. Alfie had brought food and candles and blankets and had hidden them all in an empty space so that they could keep warm and have lots to eat and could see in the dark while everyone else looked and looked for them in hide-and-seek. He had intended to surprise Jamie next time they played the game, but then Mama had died and the men had come . . . .

  Alfie suddenly grew very tired. He touched Mama’s name and remembered to say his prayers as she taught him. And then, without bothering to eat his crackers, he climbed into Papa’s empty place and went to sleep.

  ***

  A tall neon sign announced the appearance of an old comedian at the Winter Garden Theater in Berlin. Otto parked the car across the street and sat for a while to study the smiling faces of uniformed officers of the Reich and their women. Furs and diamonds glittered in the harsh light. Complexions seemed lifeless in the unnatural glow.

  This was the one theater in Berlin where people could still come with some measure of freedom. The resident comic had been arrested and released a dozen times for insulting the state and the party. He was always back to his old routine within a matter of days. Goebbels came here sometimes; Herman Göring was a regular customer. They came because this was the only way they could face the truth and face themselves—through laughter. Strip away the joke, and the truth was a hideous monster. Laugh, and it was almost bearable, like releasing steam from a pressure cooker.

  Otto had intended to go in tonight, but if he heard even one fragment of truth covered by a joke he knew he would go mad. He should mingle among these people, hear their music, know their faces. But he could not. Not now. Tomorrow he would return to Vienna and pass a cyanide tablet through the bars to Michael Wallich. Tomorrow he would be merciful and let the man die an easy death before he was forced to die a difficult one. Ease of death was the mercy of the Third Reich, the justification of murder. Like the truth, it was cloaked with laughter. Cyanide and gas, killing the helpless. Otto had heard the stories. Today they had shown him the photographs.

  “God!” He gripped the steering wheel in anguish; he wanted to tear it apart with his bare hands. He had seen the neatly stacked bodies in a row and heard how painless it had been, how merciful.

  Otto knew he was going back to whisper to Michael Wallich that he brought him a more merciful end than the death the Gestapo had planned for him! No torture. Just a little pill, and Michael Wallich would be laid out for a photograph. Not so gruesome as the picture of Thomas von Klestimann. Not crucifixion. Just this pill . . .

  Otto could not think clearly enough to walk inside the theater and grin among the other living dead men. They would turn their hollow eyes on him and know that he was a traitor to their conspiracy of death.

  He had seen too much; he had walked among these specters and reported their intentions. And no one had believed his report. All this had been useless. Useless! In England they said they were listening, but their listening had not saved Thomas. Or Austria. Or Czechoslovakia. It would not save Michael Wallich from dying or save Otto from helping him into his grave!

  The thin veneer of cold control finally cracked and fell away from Otto Wattenbarger. He had done what he needed to do, but today he had seen the photographs, and he could no longer pretend to smile or listen to the music.

  He started the car and drove slowly past the neon sign. He would have to regain his sanity again somehow, or he could not return to Vienna. Whatever cause he lived for would be gone unless he could find his mind again tonight. If not, he would be better off to swallow the pill he carried in his pocket for Michael Wallich. Indeed, that seemed the most merciful solution right now for Otto.

  But if he died an easy death, would they also crucify Michael?

  Would Michael talk, and others die? From their tortured mouths would the rest also be condemned?

  Perhaps another time Otto would listen to the music. But not tonight.

  ***

  Whole streets throughout Berlin seemed deserted, buildings shuttered and dark. As Otto drove from place to place, he measured the destruction and felt small and useless in the face of it.

  “What can one man do?” he muttered aloud as he passed the boarded façade of New church and the burned-out hulk of the great synagogue.

  From there he drove into the wide parks that lined the rivers. A bed of dead leaves carpeted the ground beneath trees that seemed lifeless and barren. Like those trees, the freshness of illusion and hope had fallen from Otto. He knew too much to believe in the goodness of men’s intentions. He had seen too much darkness to believe that God’s light was not in danger of being snuffed out forever in the soul of mankind.

  Many who believed in the goodness of humanity had already given in to evil. Beyond Germany, people spoke out against this barbarity but did not fight it with their hands as well as their mouths. They, too, had given up righteousness for the sake of ease. Their consciences were satisfied with moral outrage, but nothing further was accomplished.

  “I am too evil, my Lord.” Otto wept as he passed the high walls of a hospital where the state had murdered the weak and given beds to the strong. “I am dark!” he cried. “But I long to be light!”

  The headlights of his car swept over the dull face of the river Spree. He had seen the sunlight sparkle on its water. He could remember when he had sparkled in his own goodness. Now even kindness in his life seemed tarnished. The sunlight on the water had only been superficial. Night had come to Germany and to the world and to Otto Wattenburger.

  And in seeing what Germany had become, he saw himself.

  ***

  Orde formed his small troop into a single file with about five yards between them. As he placed them in position he gazed steadily into each man’s eyes. Satisfied that he saw no lingering doubts, he laid a clenched fist on his mouth in a renewed demand for silence, then clapped each shoulder as he received a nod of agreement.

  Moshe wondered how Orde had picked up the trail of the raiders. He himself could see no sign of their passing. But Orde walked unerringly across a rubble-strewn hillside, turned up another canyon and followed an ancient watercourse to where it opened out onto a broad plain. Still without making a sound, he pointed to the marks on the ground that plainly showed the assembly point of another group.

  A few hundred feet along the trail it became obvious that their present path would carry them very close to two Arab villages lying on the sweep of the plain below them. Zabinski started to point this out but changed his mind at a sharp look from Orde, and merely waved his hand in the direction of the villages. Orde nodded curtly and indicated by a motion of his hand that they would avoid the trail.

  Several hours later, Moshe recognized that this was no stroll on the countryside. They had tramped miles from the compound and its rel
ative safety deep into Arab territory. If apprehended here, they would not live long enough to worry about being handed over to the British authorities. What remained of their corpses would be dumped in some ravine, and no one would ever know of their fate.

  Passing the outskirts of a village, they heard approaching voices and jumped into a culvert at the edge of a field of onions. Only a thin screen of brush sheltered them. Arab farmers bantered back and forth, exchanging coarse jests.

  Moshe drew the British-made pistol from his belt and started to raise his head from the dirt of the culvert. In the next instant a vise-like grip closed over his wrist, and Captain Orde’s other hand firmly pushed Moshe’s head down. With a start, Moshe realized that Orde was paying more attention to his patrol to see that they did not do anything foolish than he was to the passing Arabs.

  Moving out when it was safe, they continued. It was dusk, and the glow of firelights in the Arab villages was beginning to show against the gathering shadows of the Galilean evening. Orde turned abruptly away from the plain and into the fringe of hills. At the base of a dusty cone-shaped mound, he held up his hand to call a halt, then waved toward a rocky outcropping about halfway up the slops. In the lee of a cliff, Moshe saw the outline of a crude structure, only barely distinguishable from the rock pile.

  With a sweeping motion, Captain Orde indicated that his commandos were to spread out on the hillside, with himself near the center of the line. At another gesture they drew their pistols and then began moving forward cautiously. The little arc of men crept slowly up toward the shepherd’s hut. Moshe listened keenly for any sounds from the shelter. His eyes darted back and forth to catch any hint of movement. There was no sign of human presence. Orde signaled the all clear and they approached the deserted structure. Through clenched teeth, Zach spoke for the first time. “This is what you brought us all this way for? To attack an empty shepherd’s hovel?”