by Bodie Thoene
“LET THEM COME! OPEN THE GATES!”
A few men stood up and stared at the windows. They gaped at one another. Clearly they had misjudged. Could it be?
Murphy patted Elisa’s hand and hurried down the stairs and out into the lobby. The crowd had pushed its way in. Their shouts resounded from the high vaults of the ceiling. Over the arched doorways of the lobby, the mosaic saints of the Kingdom gazed down serenely at the sight. Signs dripped wet from the rain:
SUFFER THE LITTLE CHILDREN TO COME UNTO ME!
THERE IS ROOM AT THE INN!
OPEN THE GATES!
LET THEM COME IN!
The faces of the thousands who crammed in, blocking the doorway, were not angry, merely determined. Blue-coated bobbies did not push them back into the rain. They faced the arched doorway leading to the Commons chamber. The thick oak panels did not keep their voices from penetrating the room.
As the masses waited outside, an emergency bill for child refugees from Nazi Germany passed within minutes. Ten thousand British families willing to take children filled a list in one day. There was a waiting list of others who longed to help.
The people of England had spoken, indeed.
***
The drab gray metal door was only one of fifty identical doors off a long, sterile corridor. There was no sound in the hallway except for the tramp of boots and the clanking of keys as cell number 17 was unlocked for Karl.
He stood outside, stubbornly refusing to enter until two guards nudged him firmly forward and then banged the heavy door closed behind him.
It was a red brick cell, constructed by civilian workmen to guarantee the strength and security of the structure. The cell had a concrete floor carpeted by a layer of straw, with a small drain hole in the center and a toilet in the back corner opposite the cot. The only illumination came from a light bulb screwed into a ceiling fixture far out of reach. Ventilation was provided by a barred window eight inches square.
As the sound of retreating guards echoed hollowly beyond the cell, Karl stared at this example of the Führer’s mercy. This was, indeed, the cell of a favored prisoner. According to rumor, the former Austrian Chancellor Schuschnigg was somewhere in this cell block. Other high officials of the Nazi party had been brought to such a place when they fell out of favor with the Führer. Often they stayed just long enough to reconsider the error of their ways and appeal for pardon. Sometimes pardon was granted. Sometimes it was not.
Karl’s eyes lingered on a small, rough wooden table at the head of the cot. On it were books, blank stationery, and a pencil for writing. For an instant his heart rose. Was that a Bible on the table? He rushed forward to retrieve a leather-bound volume from among the stack of pamphlets.
Selected Readings from the Holy Bible. Karl opened it up and skimmed through it briefly. His joy left him. The readings, pulled from the context of their original place in the Scriptures, were arranged under headings such as, Duty to Authorities and What God Says about the Jews.
The title page of the twisted collection was emblazoned with a swastika and the symbol of the new Nazi state church. Shaking his head, Karl tossed the book onto the cot and picked up a pamphlet containing the virulent anti-Semitic writings of Martin Luther’s old age. The spirit of Antichrist, it seemed, had been compiled in each of the booklets and writings selected to occupy Karl’s hours in the cell.
Better to be filthy and stinking and hungry in the barracks with other men than in this place, Karl thought. For the first time since his arrest, a sense of loneliness overwhelmed him. He thought of Helen and Lori and Jamie. He remembered Christmas as it had been last year and the years before—the reading of the Christmas story from his precious, uncut Bible; the sound of voices raised to sing in praise of the little King born in a stable; the aroma of Christmas supper; and the delight on the faces of his loved ones as they unwrapped their gifts. Later, when everything had been cleaned up, Helen had lain in his arms and they had loved each other with the gentle passion grown from years of friendship, of knowing each other. And the children had slept a contented sleep.
Such memories rushed in on Karl with pressing grief. He dropped to his knees in the straw and moaned softly. How much better to work beside other suffering prisoners! To struggle day to day, moment to moment, with cold and hunger and bleeding hands and then to fall exhausted on a plank bunk and sleep! There was no mercy in this clean, bare cell. There was no comfort in the carefully chosen passages of the books left for him to read. In the barracks he had been comforted by giving comfort to others.
In this place there was no one to encourage; no one to help; no man with whom he could share his ration and say, “I am here for this reason . . . .”
In this cell, there was only Karl, and he knew that loneliness was the fiercest fire of all to try his faith.
***
The bathroom had been converted into a darkroom. Otto posted a sign on the door forbidding entrance until the passport photos were developed.
After rinsing the pictures, he placed them in the bathtub to dry. Otto brought them out for viewing after supper, and ignoring the moans from his subjects, he declared that the photographs were perfectly dreadful, just as all passport pictures were meant to be.
Willie was too young to be required to have his likeness on official identity documents. Babies changed too much from one week to another. Not even the rabid fanatics in the Nazi ministry of the Interior expected that.
“His papers will be simple,” Otto said cheerfully. “I can have them back in a matter of days.”
“So what? He is not going anywhere without the rest of us.” Peter watched lovingly as Willie pulled himself up to stand along the side of the sofa. He was trying so hard to walk! He looked at Peter as if to see whether Peter was proud of this latest accomplishment.
Otto did not answer Peter’s statement. The truth was, it might be necessary to separate the family, to send each one out of the Reich a different way. Until that time, Otto was exploring the possibility of moving Willie and Marlene to families in Vienna who might be willing to shield Jewish children.
“How long will it take for my passport?” Marlene looked down unhappily at the pouting image of her face. “I won’t show it to anyone.”
“You’ll show it when they ask you for it,” Peter challenged. “Or they will arrest you and drag you off.”
“But it doesn’t look like me,” she whimpered.
“Yes, it does. Ugly.” Peter regretted saying it before it was out of his mouth. His mother insisted he apologize. Marlene made a face at him. Typical.
“We had better get our papers soon,” Karin said to Otto. “Or I know two children who are likely to wake the dead with their arguing.” She apologized to Otto. They had moved in on him, disrupted his life, and now he had to endure the bickering of Marlene and Peter. She knew he would be glad to be rid of them all.
“I will be glad when you are safe,” Otto said quietly as he gathered up the pictures.
Peter eyed him from the sofa, where Willie happily pounded his big brother’s leg, begging to be picked up. “Why are you doing this?” Peter asked.
“Maybe because I don’t want to hear you and Marlene fight anymore.” Otto smiled, trying to make light of the one unpleasant fact of their confinement.
“That’s not what I mean,” Peter said, picking up Willie and receiving a slobbery kiss. “I mean why—from the start—have you put yourself in danger for us? You don’t owe us anything.”
“Your father was a good man,” Otto replied. “He died so that a lot of other men could live. This is just my way of fighting back. One small thing I can do. There are other men who also admired your father. I am getting help with your papers. You will seem as Aryan as Himmler himself when we get through.” He still seemed cheerful, hopeful. “Just try, you and Marlene, not to kill each other before we get the details worked out.”
***
Orde had not come to the evening meal at the Hanita mess hall. He had not spoken to any
one at the settlement all day. Moshe and Larry Havas walked together across the dark compound. The lantern in Orde’s tent was still glowing. His shadow paced the length of the tan canvas, then back again.
“You think we should ask him if he wants to come listen to the radio?” Havas asked tentatively.
Moshe shook his head. “You ask him if you want to. Not me. As a matter of fact, I want to sleep in another tent tonight. He is in one of those black moods.”
Havas shrugged. “You can bunk with us if you don’t mind the snoring.”
“Better than growling.”
The music from the old Philco radio echoed pleasantly in the mess hall. It was American music from some big band at a New York hotel, someone said as Moshe and Havas took a seat beside Zach.
“Very mellow stuff,” Larry said. “Too mellow. Depressing. What we need is a little Tommy Dorsey to wake us up.”
“What we need,” said Zach quietly as he stirred his coffee, “is for Captain Orde to snap out of it! He is like a dark cloud hovering over the entire settlement. We speak to him, and he grunts. Smile and wave, and he scowls. I was so happy this morning when I heard about the child refugee transports. I asked him what he thought about it. Ten thousand kids to England, and I thought he was going to hit me.” Zach shook his head. “What do you think, Moshe? You bunk with him.”
“I think you should shut up. Here he comes.” Moshe jerked his head as the door swung back and Orde strode in. All conversation stopped dead. No laughter; nothing but solemn awareness that the cloud was sweeping across the hall toward Zach.
Moshe did not look up. It seemed to him that the head of every man and woman in the room pulled in between hunched shoulders. Like a herd of tortoises, no one wanted to take the brunt of Orde’s mood.
Zach pretended not to see Orde until he sat down beside him.
“Shalom, Orde.”
“That means peace,” Orde remarked sourly.
“Hello. Good-bye. Whatever,” Zach tried to sound cheerful. It was the wrong move.
“What are you so happy about? Still gloating over ten thousand children going to England?” Orde scowled.
“Well, no. Although it is better than leaving them in the hands of the Nazis.”
Orde glared hard at him. “Let me tell you what this means.”
“Do I have a choice?” Zach still feigned lightness. The cloud darkened.
“You have been sold out by the British! Those kids are not coming home here to Zion! No, they are being torn away from families to be spread around like so many chicks from a hatchery! You have been paid off! Ten thousand children in England, and the Zionists will be expected not to bring up the issue of immigration again! Haj Amin and Hitler have won! The price for the nation of Israel is ten thousand children.” He was fuming, his face flushed with anger. “There is dancing in Berlin tonight. The Mufti and the Führer are dancing on the graves of your people, and you expect me to smile?”
No. No one expected him to smile. But the feeling was that it would have been better if he had stayed in his tent.
“At least we can be happy that the children are saved,” Larry ventured.
“Saved? They are consigned to the obscurity of wanderers and orphans! This is where they belong! This is the promised homeland for the people of the Covenant, and I tell you, we will do everything to bring them here!” He thumped the table. “Do you understand me? We will not be purchased with the lives of child-hostages! We will fight here, and everyone from England to Hitler and the Mufti will wonder what has gotten into us Jews in Palestine!”
No one dared to challenge his reference that he was one of them. “Don’t forget, Orde,” Zach said gently, “it is you who are on our side, not us on your side.” Nervous laughter rippled through the room. “Come on, we are in this fight as one.” Zach shrugged. “Although at times you out-Zion all the rest of us put together.” He laid a hand on Orde’s arm. “That makes you the most dangerous man in Palestine to the Mufti because you will fight, and to us Jews because you are a Christian who is fighting for us. And for Zion. It is a miracle we speak of among ourselves. It makes us think, you know?”
“Yes.” Orde stared at his clenched hands and slowly relaxed them. “And we have the promise of His Word to back us up.” He stood abruptly. “Well, then . . . I am tired. Shalom.”
That was all. He left the settlers staring at one another, wondering at the odd man they called Hayedid, Friend. Moshe bunked with Larry, much preferring the snoring.
25
Treasures
The porter, a young peasant—thick-necked, short, and well-muscled—had dark features that made Lucy wonder if he was a Jew. He assured her he was Hungarian. After all, Vienna had been the capital of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Many swarthy people who were not Jews lived in the city, and many Jews who were not swarthy. It was all very confusing to Lucy, at best.
Not wanting trouble, Lucy had checked his papers before she hired him. There was no J stamped on the page denoting a Jew. Only then did she offer him two marks for carrying the rugs for her.
As she instructed, he followed at a discreet distance, the rugs rolled and slung easily over his broad shoulders. He carried them as though they were not at all heavy and kept up with her quick pace.
When they reached the Dorotheum, Lucy turned to make certain he was still behind her. Their eyes met, and he stopped and looked away. It was important, she had told him, that no one realize she was so impoverished that she must sell these priceless family heirlooms.
Lucy slipped in and climbed the stairs, pausing at the first landing to watch him enter after her and follow. A broad nod of her head told him that he was doing well. He followed her up to the fourth floor and found the appraiser’s office identified by the sign PERSIAN CARPETS.
Once inside, the young man dropped the cargo where she pointed. Lucy paid him, gave him a pleasant smile of farewell, and hoped she would never see him again. He checked the coin in his hand and left without comment. These days it was common for people to sell off family possessions. His expression, which seemed to convey his amusement that such old rugs had any value at all, caused Lucy a moment of genuine uneasiness. Suppose she had paid two precious marks to have the things carried, and then they were of no value? Suppose her ruse of faintness over the sight of brown chocolate stains was for nothing? She certainly could not repeat such a performance to gain Wolf’s permission to empty the apartment of its furnishings.
Her palms were damp and cold by the time the appraiser turned his attention to her. He perched his spectacles on his nose and looked first at her and then at the rolled-up rugs beside her on the floor.
“Ah!” He smiled. “Kurdistani.”
How did he know this from the bottom side of a rolled-up rug? “Yes,” she agreed as if she knew. “Are they . . . ?”
He was already stooping beside them, feeling the texture and examining the closeness of the threads. “And a very fine example, too!”
This answered her question. “Family heirlooms,” she said with just a hint of tragedy in her voice.
The appraiser glanced up at her with a start. “Yes, I know.” His voice was flat. His eyes narrowed slightly. “I knew the family.”
She stared blankly at him. She was caught, and she knew it. Drawing a deep breath, she stared out the door and imagined this little man questioning her and calling the Gestapo. She thought of what Wolf would say.
Swallowing hard, she attempted a maneuver. “Not my family,” she said softly.
He straightened and faced her with a hand on his hip. He dared her to lie, dared her to tell him that she knew the people who had once owned these rugs. His defiant and angry look pierced her defenses. “Would you care to explain?”
“I purchased them.” She raised her chin. Why should she explain anything? “Now I need money.”
“Surely you have a bill of sale for such fine merchandise.” His gaze was steely, as if he spoke for the family they had been taken from.
Lucy loo
ked desperately at the door. She wanted to run, to disappear into the crowds of the city. Tears, genuine tears, glittered in her eyes. “No. I have no bill of sale. I know nothing about these except they are supposed to be of value . . . and the truth is, I need money. I . . . they belong to my fiancé . . . that is, he acquired them. I don’t know how he got them, but he did.”
“Is he a thief?” The appraiser seemed unmoved by this breakthrough of honesty.
With a shake of her head she replied, “No. He is an SS officer.” She hesitated. “And he is not my fiancé. And . . . I need . . . the money.” Her words had fallen to a choked, pleading whisper.
The man reached around her and closed the door. Then he turned to face her. He was considering what this liar with the stolen carpets of his Jewish friends had to say.
He swept a hand toward the carpets. “These were taken . . . stolen . . . from the home of my friend. He asked that I might keep watch for them, just on the chance that they might show up.” His lower lip protruded. The muscle in his jaw twitched angrily. “There are several others.”
“No.” Lucy was pleading. “He . . . he shipped them to Prussia.”
At this news the appraiser gave her a sad, disgusted look. “Thief or SS officer—what is the difference?” He shrugged with resignation. “I could be arrested for that. And you, no doubt, would be arrested for stealing these from your SS thief. Therefore, you have something on me. And I have something on you. We are equal before the law.” He gave a slight bow from the waist and managed a smile.
“I would not report you,” she said. “I’ll take them back and no one will ever—”
He held up his palm to silence her. “It is too late for that. You brought them here to sell them. Therefore, I will tell you that there is a reward for them. Not a big reward, considering their great value, but then, my friends have lost a great fortune here in Austria and elsewhere. So the reward is small. Two hundred Marks each.”
