by Bodie Thoene
Something deeper filled Orde’s eyes. He considered the question. “Your Messiah came through the root of Israel. He says His Covenant is with you, forever, for a thousand generations. The Lord submitted himself like a lamb of sacrifice to pay the penalty of my sins. Mine. Samuel Orde. My many sins He took on himself.”
Tears, real tears shone in Orde’s eyes. “I am so grateful for His love and kindness. I really believe that He considers the people of the Covenant His own dear children. Satan desires that the promises God made to the Jewish people be broken, that you also be slaughtered like lambs. No Jews. No Israel. Because then God would be a liar.”
He frowned. “Is that possible? Could evil stamp out the Covenant? I don’t know. But there is a battle going on here to do just that. And I am a soldier. I understand battles; fighting is what is right. So I am here. This is a spiritual battle between good and evil, light and dark. Some men will fight it with prayers and words of peace. I am called to fight with my sword, as David fought the Philistines. It is the least I can do for my King. He died for me. Should I not be willing then to die for His beloved people?”
Moshe had no response. He had a thousand questions, but maybe he did not want to hear the answers Samuel Orde would give him. And so he lay back down and closed his eyes and pretended to sleep while the scratching of Orde’s pen continued for hours.
***
The tickets came to Otto’s box in a sealed envelope direct from the Berlin headquarters of the Abwehr, military intelligence. Inside was a note on the letterhead stationery of Admiral Canaris himself.
Officer Wattenbarger,
Congratulations on a job well done in Vienna. These tickets were purchased in advance with great difficulty. Our hope is that you will find some relief from the cares of duty in these most enlightening shows.
Admiral Canaris
Chief of Abwehr
There was no mistaking Canaris’s meaning. The job well done was the matter of getting the cyanide tablet to Michael Wallich before the Gestapo staff butchers could make him talk. Michael’s easy death had saved the neck of Canaris and every other high traitor to the Nazi cause. Canaris owed a debt of gratitude to Otto, but much more to Michael Wallich. A handful of tickets seemed a pitiful reminder that Michael had risked everything for a democratic Germany and lost.
Otto fanned the tickets out on his desk, twelve in all. Two for each Wednesday night performance over the next six weeks.
The seats for the raucous American jazz performance had been sold out in Vienna for a month.
D’ FAT LADY
FAMOUS AMERICAN JAZZ TRIO
DIRECT FROM PERFORMANCES
NEW YORK—PARIS—LONDON—BERLIN
And now they were coming to Vienna. Posters and leaflets were everywhere. Every high Nazi party official and officer in Vienna was scrambling for seats—anything to provide some relief to the endless concerts and Strauss waltzes morning, noon, and night.
Tickets to hear American jazz, for Otto and a guest—pure gold, no doubt, worth a trunkload of fine china or a fine Persian rug. This was a strange and extravagant gift, considering that tickets were being resold now on the black market for many times the original price. Otto had heard yesterday that a certain SS officer had procured two seats by jailing an Austrian furrier until he agreed to pay bail with his tickets.
Otto gathered them up and stuffed them into the envelope. He was not particularly fond of American jazz. Reselling the tickets could make him mildly rich, but he also knew that Admiral Canaris was a frugal man. Such a wildly expensive gift said more than a mere thank you.
***
Light from the lamp over the dining table glinted in Karin Wallich’s red hair. She ladled up the soup and then smiled tenderly at little Willie when he flapped his arms enthusiastically at the prospect of supper.
Taken all together—the soft glow of her hair, the warm and tender look from mother to child—the effect was stunning. Otto looked away quickly, uncomfortable to discover that the widow of Michael Wallich was a beautiful woman. Desirable. He did not look at her face again throughout the meal. She did not speak to him except to answer his questions in monosyllables. Perhaps that distance was better kept intact.
Peter, who did not like Otto, still managed to carry on conversation: science, art, great books he had read. The boy was obviously as brilliant as his father. Such intelligence added to the personal risk for him. Intellect in a Jewish child was interpreted by Nazi doctrine as sly and devious.
The truth was, Peter made suppertime bearable for Otto. He pulled his mind away from . . . other things.
And so it was a surprise to Otto when he raised his eyes from Karin’s hands and asked her, “Do you like American jazz?” An odd question to ask right in the middle of passing the bread. Her mouth curved slightly upward. Almost a smile.
“No,” she replied.
Silence descended as Peter considered the reason Otto would ask such a question. Whatever the reason, Peter did not like the tiny smile on his mother’s lips.
“Ah. Well . . . ” Otto stammered and averted his eyes. He was glad she had answered no; otherwise he might have done something insane and actually asked her to go out with him. For an instant he had forgotten why she was here. Forgotten why she could not step out into the sunlight or go shopping. The men in charge of Michael Wallich’s case had said:
“Husbands tell wives secrets.”
“Certainly the woman knows what he knew.”
“If she is still in Vienna we will find her.”
“But how to make her talk?”
“She has children, doesn’t she? Hang a child by its thumbs, and there is no mother in the world who would not . . . ”
Otto stared at his spoon. The memory of that conversation made the color drain from his cheeks.
“Are you all right, Herr Wattenbarger?” Karin leaned forward with concern.
He had told her she was in danger because of Michael’s activities. He had not told her everything—not about the danger to the children or the fact that they were the weapon the Nazis could use against her. That was why the rule had been made about the children of political prisoners not being allowed on the child refugee transports to England. The children were held hostage. The children assured that imprisoned mothers and fathers would do or say anything they were told.
“Herr Wattenbarger?” Karin rose from her seat and took a step toward him. “Otto?”
She had never called him by his Christian name before. The sound of it jerked him back to reality. “I . . . had a moment. Not feeling well . . . ”
Everyone was staring at him, even baby Willie. Otto looked at the baby, then at the delicate face of the mother. The Gestapo was right. They could probably break Karin to pieces and she would not tell what she knew. Ah, but to hurt baby Willie—one blow to that sweet face, the twist of his chubby arm . . .
Otto managed a nervous laugh as she put her hand to his forehead. “I am not a fan of American music, either.”
“If it affects you so badly, I would not mention it,” she said. “Do you need to lie down?”
Her hand was cool. He put his hand to her arm in a gesture of appreciation for her concern. “I’ll be all right. Just a long day. Thank you.”
This much conversation between Karin and Otto sparked a smoldering look from Peter. The rest of the meal was eaten in silence.
***
Ronacher’s Establishment had been known as the most prominent place of amusement among the wealthy of Vienna before the Anschluss. Located at number 9 Seilerstätte, just off the broad boulevards of the Ringstrasse, the place had always been packed with barons and dukes and a fair mix of their female counterparts.
The clientele had changed since the coming of the Nazis. Now peasant boys who had risen through the ranks to become high Nazi party officials sat in the velvet chairs of the elegant supper club. The food was still the best in Vienna. The entertainment was the most lively and modern in Europe. Backstage, electronic equipment w
as in place to broadcast live shows to other cities in Europe.
Tonight, holding tightly to Wolf’s arm, Lucy walked through the double doors of Ronacher’s and into the room she had only dreamed of as a child. Never had she imagined herself here at the finest nightclub on the Continent.
The glitter of medals and jewels did not hide the fact that most of the audience had humble beginnings, like Lucy’s. Wolf looked over the other guests with a distinct air of disapproval. Noting table manners and wild laughter and the copious amounts of liquor being consumed, he leaned forward and muttered to Lucy, “All the plow horses have come wearing their racing silks tonight.”
Once his disdain had intimidated her. It had also impressed her. Tonight she merely smiled back at him.
“Those of us raised on a farm have a certain respect for the plow horses. I think that these would be better called sows’ ears, Wolf darling. Sows’ ears who have come to Ronacher’s in hopes of turning into silk purses, yes?” She beamed.
He swept his arrogant eyes over her and took her hand. “And what are you, my little peasant?”
“A fine brood mare, I think. Deserving of good food and comfort so my master may have a more pleasant ride.”
Once again she surprised him. He appreciated wit, even in a farm girl. He had not suspected she was capable of such repartee.
“Give me a strong colt, Lucy, and one day I might give you Ronacher’s as a gift.”
“This one seat is enough.” She turned her head toward the stage and dance floor where D’ Fat Lady Trio would soon begin their performance. “I know how difficult it is to get tickets. I am the envy of everyone in the office, Wolf.”
Champagne corks popped at nearly every table. Wolf ordered French champagne, the best on the list. Then he proceeded to name the various politicians and military men around the room. He knew the minute details of their low beginnings, and he recited facts with the attitude of an aristocrat scraping manure from his riding boots. Suddenly he paused in his monologue and laughed out loud at the sight of a red-bearded man seated at a table next to the stage.
“And will you look at that!” Wolf poured himself another glass of champagne. “There is the follow you wanted to meet, the man who managed to find your apartment. And that peasant has the best seat in the house, too!”
“Gestapo?”
“Special investigations.”
“He seems young.” Lucy eyed the broad shoulders of the man dressed in an outdated blue serge suit. He was seated with a buxom, plain-looking young brunette in a cheap black dress right off the rack. Both of them looked out of place, and the woman seemed a bit drunk as well. She babbled on incessantly while the man with the red beard sullenly stared at the curtain.
“I wonder who he arrested to get such seats,” Wolf said. “It pays to know this man, I tell you. Apartments. Furniture. Furs.” He flipped the sleeve of Lucy’s new coat. “Well, I manage all right. But look at Otto, will you? Sitting there without pretense in his blue suit. And all the medals and diamonds in the room do not have as good a seat as he has!”
There was, at least, some respect in Wolf’s tone as he said this.
“Otto?” she asked.
“As much a peasant as you, but no racing silks, eh? Like the Führer. Yes, that is what I admire in the Führer. His plainness. A plain brown uniform. He does not attempt to conceal what he was, like Hermann Göring with all the tinsel on his chest. A plain and honest man, Hitler. He knows something about duty.”
Wolf was speaking to himself; Lucy might as well have not been there. The man named Otto was simply a jumping-off place for Wolf’s Prussian monologue about duty and discipline and the Aryan way of doing things.
Very boring stuff after the tenth time. Lucy tuned him out. She preferred staring openly at the tasteless display of new and stolen wealth that adorned these hopeful sows’ ears.
Wolf had finished off almost an entire bottle of champagne by the time the curtain came up and D’ Fat Lady Trio blasted away at every vestige of aloofness, duty, and Prussian reserve.
This black woman, with her wide smile and a glittering dress plastered to her enormous body, rocked the place like a Munich beer hall. Even dressed in their finest, the peasants who attended this performance could not conceal their origins.
Lucy loved it. And when D’ Fat Lady singled out the reserved and austere Otto, she laughed and applauded wildly with the others. Stiff and grim-faced, Otto was hauled into the spotlight, caressed and crooned at to the tune of “I’d Rather Be Blue.” She twirled his hair around her big black finger; wrapped a silk scarf around his waist to pull him close. Only when he blushed a deep red and smiled with embarrassment did she finally let him go. He headed for his seat, and she pulled him back again!
It was delicious. Lucy only wished she might have seen such a woman pull Hitler onto a stage in his plain brown wrapper! Could the Führer blush? Lucy wondered. And would Wolf still admire him if he actually showed some human emotion?
This strange question replayed in Lucy’s mind as she turned to watch Wolf’s response to the show.
His eyebrows raised slightly, he smiled at D’ Fat Lady as she wrapped the silk scarf around Otto’s neck. But Wolf’s smile was not pleasant. Lucy had seen this smile a thousand times, cold and filled with resentment and mistrust as the black hands tied a big bow in the bright pink scarf.
With a shrug Otto bowed slightly and returned to his seat amidst thunderous applause. Lucy thought she could see envy on the faces of the men around the room. After all, they had worn their medals to catch the spotlight. But the plain blue suit now wore the racing silks.
Wolf’s eyes narrowed as the applause died away. “That will teach him to get tickets so close to the front.” He was not amused.
D’ Fat Lady gave a deep bow, then straightened up, clicked her heels together, and raised her arm silently in a rigid Hitler salute. Then after a long pause she smiled and said in accented German, “That is how high my dog can jump!”
The crowd roared with laughter. The woman across from Otto nearly fell off her seat. Only two men in the room did not smile. Otto’s face was hard as he removed the scarf and tucked it into his pocket. Wolf simply glared at D’ Fat Lady and poured himself the last of the champagne.
***
Otto emptied his pockets onto the bed. The note D’ Fat Lady had slipped him during the evening’s performance was tied into one end of the scarf.
Instructions were simple. Each week he would stop by the box office of Ronacher’s and pick up a fresh program sheet. He was told to tune in to the BBC broadcast on Monday night at eight o’clock. A number of rhetorical questions would be asked. Otto would listen, and then through information channels, answer those questions as specifically as possible—names, dates, future plans of the Führer in central Europe. All these things must be reduced to a series of dots and dashes inserted along the dotted border that framed the picture of the jazz trio on the program. Simple telegraphic code. After that it was a matter of enjoying the Wednesday night show at Ronacher’s and leaving the program on the table.
Otto burned the note and flushed its ashes down the toilet. As simple as this all sounded, Otto knew what even a single scrap of paper left lying around could mean if the plan fell apart.
The highest sources in the German command were involved. They would provide him answers, he was certain—information he could not possibly be expected to know. Other things he would find out on his own.
For the most part, however, he played the role of courier between the head of military intelligence and the American jazz trio. It was an odd arrangement, indeed, but Otto had long ago ceased to be surprised by methods of passing information.
27
Breaking the Silence
Winston Churchill’s bulk seemed to take up most of the glass sound booth at the BBC. After seeing him at his fiery best on the floor of Commons, Anna thought how much he now looked like a caged bear on display.
A sheaf of notes lay in front of him
. To his right a cork bulletin board held the photographs of Helen and Karl, Lori and Jamie, as well as eight other prominent Germans who had spoken out and now had vanished.
The warning light came on. Thirty seconds to air time. Churchill nodded slowly, cleared his throat, and glanced through the questions he must put to the world, and to one man within the Reich in hopes of getting necessary answers.
The link to New York was strong—no sunspots or unpredictable atmospherics dulled transmission to the West. The link to Europe, however, was weaker. Blank spots were reported in transmissions to Amsterdam, Prague, and Paris. There was no way of checking the reception in Berlin and Vienna, however, since the BBC was supposed to be banned there. Murphy did not look worried as he raised his hand to signal ten seconds.
Anna gripped Theo’s hand and prayed that the question would be heard and an answer would come quickly about Helen and Karl and the children.
The red light blinked on as Murphy’s hand lowered. Churchill looked up, then down, and began.
“I avail myself with relief at the opportunity of speaking to the people of the United States and to people whose hearts are free in spite of imprisonment . . . .”
He sounded awkward and uncomfortable in these opening lines. Anna prayed for him. Everything must be right and strong!
“I do not know how long such liberties will be allowed. The stations of uncensored expression are closing down; the lights are going out in men and in nations alike. Let me, then, speak in earnestness and truth while time remains . . . .”
***
Baby Willie played with a pan and a wooden spoon in front of the radio set. Peter thought that his baby brother preferred music to the forbidden speech of the Englishman Churchill. But these words were better than food to Peter, who sat beside Otto and leaned in to hear the speech.
