by Bodie Thoene
Churchill almost smiled. “There is nothing I may say that will bring down additional brimstone on my head, Murphy. Indeed, if I am silent now, of all times, I might burst, and what a mess that would be to clean up, eh? Of course it might give the Nazis another reason to celebrate.” He flicked ashes from the arm of his chair. “At least I am not paying for my opinion with my life, as some brave Germans may well be doing right now.”
“You know of German opposition to what has just happened?” Murphy leaned forward.
“Not everyone in Germany is mad, although those who are not mad may soon be dead. Hitler had managed through us—through the prime minister of Great Britain—to crush all opposition against him in Germany. Who would dare oppose him now? He has taken the Rhineland without a shot. Rebuilt his armies without a protest. Marched into Austria . . . and now carved up Czechoslovakia like a roast duck.” There was deep bitterness in Churchill’s voice. “And all of this with the blessings of our government and that of France. Hitler pointed a gun at our heads and demanded one pound. When that was given, two pounds were demanded. Finally the dictator consented to take one pound, seventeen shillings and six pence, and the rest in our promises of goodwill for the future.”
He laughed a short, bitter laugh. “Left to themselves and told they would get no help from the Central Powers, the Czechs and President Beneš would have been able to make better terms than they have got after all this! Now we have lost the support of thirty-five Czech army divisions. All has come to nothing with the stroke of a pen. What remains of Czechoslovakia will be swallowed up soon enough. There is hardly a way this fiasco could be worse for us . . .
“And for the refugees?” Murphy led him slightly as he took notes.
“Refugees.” Churchill puffed his cigar. “They continue to shipwreck on the shoals of politics. The best interest of nations is not the best interest of individual human life, I’m afraid.”
“You have heard about the violence in Palestine?”
Churchill shook his massive head in disgust. He had heard. “Chaim Weizmann called me just after you, wanting some reassurance of my support for a Jewish national home. What use is my support at this hour? I am the pariah of Parliament. I stand by my commitment to the Zionists. I stand by the promise given to world Jewry for a national home in Palestine. This seems to me a matter of honor. But what value have we put on honor these days?” The great man closed his eyes in a private grief. “And what value have we put on human life?”
Silence. Churchill looked as if he had seen some terrible vision.
Murphy cleared his throat. “You believe Britain will yield to the demands of the Arab Council?”
“The Arab Council simply mimics the words of Adolf Hitler. Britain has not failed to yield to his demands yet.”
“Palestine will be closed to Jewish immigration.” Murphy spoke these words as if the announcement had already come from the colonial office. He felt queasy at the realization. He had seen the crowds gathered outside the embassies of Prague—and that had been before the Munich Agreement. How desperate were those thousands now?
Churchill nodded. “The same claw that cut the heart from Czechoslovakia now digs into Palestine. The same.” He sighed. “I cannot imagine what is to become of all those people trapped in the middle. Chased out of the Reich. Kept out of Palestine for the sake of appeasing a hoodlum.”
Murphy jotted a few lines, then looked inquiringly at Churchill. “You know, I can quote you . . . or you can write it yourself. A column for an American chain of newspapers?”
At this cautious suggestion the old lion eyed Murphy with a new interest. He rubbed a hand over his stubbled chin. “My mother was American, you know. You may call my agent, Murphy.”
With this last comment, Murphy knew that, literary agent notwithstanding, he had somehow struck a very unexpected bargain with Winston Churchill. The old lion had begun his public career as a journalist in the Boer Wars of Africa. Writing political commentary for the land of his mother’s birth seemed a natural extension of his talents as orator and writer.
Churchill lifted his chin slightly. “In spite of my current unpopularity, Murphy, I am convinced that history will one day be kind to me. ” He chuckled. “Because I intend to write it myself.”
So the matter was settled. Churchill called Murphy to the window and pointed to where a large, swarthy gardener labored pruning rose bushes. “Since I am unpopular now, however,” Churchill continued, “I have engaged a bodyguard.”
“Unnecessary, I hope.” Murphy studied the man who snipped at brown branches even while he gazed toward Churchill and Murphy.
“That is my hope as well.” Churchill paused. “But even so, for the sake of my health and that of my family I keep this muscular insurance policy nearby at all times.” He cocked an eyebrow at Murphy. “You would be wise to do the same.”
A chill of fear prickled the hair on Murphy’s neck. He scrutinized the bodyguard and then Churchill to see if the statesman was serious. There was no amusement in Churchill’s eyes. “Is there . . . some reason . . . ” Murphy’s voice faltered.
“Over the past months, I had some contact with a certain young German officer. I received a wire from him in code that he was coming to England seeking political asylum. The day of his scheduled arrival came and went, and he did not come. I fear the worst.”
“But what has that got to do with me? With us?”
“The officer in question is an old friend of Elisa’s . . . Thomas von Kleistmann.”
***
For weeks Thomas von Kleistmann had been dodging his Gestapo pursuers, and now it had come to this.
Behind him the shrill whistle of the train screamed in alarm as he ran through the crowds on the dock. A hundred yards away was the ship that he had prayed would carry him to England. To safety. To his right, three men pushed through porters and passengers moving slowly toward the gangplank of the Channel ferry. To the left, just ahead, three more Gestapo agents moved to intercept him.
The ship’s horn bellowed. Thomas pressed on. He shoved a woman from his path. She shouted an indignant protest at him. The Gestapo agents moved without taking their eyes from Thomas, who stood a head taller than nearly everyone in the crowd.
It was cold in the morning air, but perspiration mingled with the mist on Thomas’s forehead. Twice he had managed to evade Leo Vargen, the SS commander in charge of his capture. Perhaps he would be lucky a third time. Anything else would mean a certain and terrible end.
The line of passengers moved slowly past the customs clerk. Thomas managed to pull out his passport and visa. False documents, of course. He glanced to his left. Vargen and his men were making steady and rapid progress. There would be no time to show papers to anyone. He crammed them back in his pocket and stopped.
His pursuers straightened and shouted an alarm as he turned to push back the way he had come. Escape by ship was hopeless now. Hopeless. He would have to make it to the warehouses. Hide in the labyrinth of crates and cargo boxes until it was safe to come out. He could not be taken—he knew too much. Too many names, dates, plans. Elisa’s face swam before his eyes, then the image of Ernst vom Rath, Admiral Canaris, and the others. The Gestapo could make a man betray everyone and everything! No, he must not fall into their hands!
“Get out of the way!”
Hearing the angry voice of Vargen, Thomas pushed and struck at those who blocked his path.
The engine of a train hissed as passengers departing the quay boarded for Amsterdam.
Thomas fought the panic that threatened to rob him of his ability to think. Green train cars blocked the path of his escape to the warehouse complex. Vargen and the others made better progress than he was making. If only he were not so tall!
He peered back again at the Gestapo agents. Their faces registered determination, but they seemed to have no fear of losing their quarry. Vargen smiled. He raised his hand and pointed toward Thomas. The train screamed again as two more men stepped from the high step of
a green passenger car.
Now the path was blocked three ways. He could only hope to turn back. He might make it to the ship—or perhaps dive into the water!
He spun around. And then he saw them. Unmistakable in their department-issue trench coats, two more agents waited a mere ten paces behind him, their Lugers drawn.
***
“France, yes. Poland? Yes, of course. Maybe even Prague.” Murphy paced the length of his study and back. “But you are not going back to Berlin. Or Salzburg or Vienna!” he declared to Elisa.
“Then perhaps Sir Thomas will ask my resignation from the orchestra,” she said quietly. This was not an argument, but a regret.
“We will cross that bridge when we come to it. But you are not crossing the border of the German Reich! Not again, ever!” He exhaled loudly as if the very thought of it terrified him. “I am having difficulty even letting you out of my sight in London, let alone thinking of you going back there!”
“We still have months before the festivals.” Her voice was soft, full of hope. Was it still possible that Hitler could be taken from power between now and then? Hadn’t Thomas believed? “But of course . . . you are right, Murphy. I won’t risk anything. Not myself . . . ”
“For my sake, Elisa. For my peace of mind.”
“And for the sake of our little one.”
“Within a few months all Europe may be at war. I don’t want to frighten you, but festivals at Bayreuth won’t mean much compared to that. And if things happen as some are saying . . . ” He did not discuss Churchill’s prophecy. “Then I am sending you and the boys and the baby back to the States to sit this one out. You understand me?”
She shook her head. “Tell me I cannot perform in Salzburg or Bayreuth, but do not make me leave you, Murphy. Not ever.” Tears swam in her eyes. The day had begun so perfectly. Why must this shadow hover over them still?
She put up her arms to him and he knelt beside her, laying his head in her lap. “Maybe I’ll go home with you. Write a sports column. Brooklyn Dodgers. Yankees . . .”
She stroked his hair and knew with a certainty that such a life could never be for them. “Are we supposed to fiddle, Murphy, while the whole world burns down around us?” Both of them knew it would be impossible. “If darkness defeats us by simply wearing us out, then where is there any hope for the light?”
“Listen.” Murphy raised his head. “Right now I just want you to be okay. Promise me that for a while, anyway, you will just fiddle, huh? Sir Thomas is right about that much at least. Just play your Guarnerius and let that baby have a little peace and quiet in there. There isn’t anything you can do now that will stop whatever is coming. You have done your bit. Lay low. Take it easy for a while? Promise me, Elisa—”
“An easy promise to make,” she whispered. “As long as you do not bring me the front page, Murphy!” She said the words with a sad smile, but both of them knew they were true.
8
Rescue
Plumes of smoke rose up from the port of Jaffa as the heavily guarded refugee buses moved toward a vast, unnamed refugee center on the outskirts of Tel Aviv. The distant sounds of gunfire could be heard clearly.
Shimon squeezed Leah’s hand as he stared bleakly out the window of the bus. “They have not told us everything, these Englishmen.”
“Only disturbances,” Leah murmured, arguing inwardly with the same awareness that Shimon felt. Things were indeed much more serious than the authorities were letting on. A demonstration to show the English politicians the extent of Arab dissatisfaction.
“If it sounds like war, and looks like war—” Shimon raised his chin and sniffed the faint scent of gunpowder on the air—“and smells like war . . . ”
Ahead lay an immense city of tents, surrounded by tall barbed-wire fences.
“This must be home,” remarked a young man bitterly.
“At least it is not Dachau! I have seen that place!” Shimon blurted out defensively. “Here the guards have their eyes turned out. Their guns away from us. The wire is to protect us, not keep us prisoner.”
“Wire is wire,” argued the young man angrily. “Guards are guards.”
“You would not think so if you had been to Dachau,” Shimon muttered.
Only Leah heard him. Somehow his words lessened her renewed disappointment with the Promised Land. Drab green army tents on a barren plain. This was not going to be a pleasant campout in a lovely Alpine setting. When members of the halutz had described hardship at the Zionist meetings, Leah had imagined adventure. How did I ever manage to confuse the two? she wondered.
The caravan slowed. Armed escorts sped past on their motorcycles. Inside the compound, additional British soldiers peered out from behind sandbags.
Leah craned her neck to look back where the plume of smoke thickened and broadened. A distant explosion sent up yet another billowing black cloud.
“They’ve hit the fuel depot!” shouted a British soldier, and all heads pivoted to watch.
Only Shimon could imagine what such an inferno was like at close range.
“What is happening?” shouted a woman out the window. “Is it war?”
The soldier throttled back and glared resentfully at the frightened faces on the bus. “Not a war. Just a little welcoming demonstration in your honor. In honor of the Jewish refugees, see?”
Without waiting for reply, he revved his motor and sped off.
Those who understood English interpreted for those who did not. A heavy silence lay over the men and women onboard. So. The English soldiers were being forced to fight because of this Jewish dream of a homeland. Good boys from Brighton and Blackpool were going to die today because an English politician named Balfour said that there would be a homeland for the Jews. Arabs attacked because these buses were filled with people who hoped the promise was true. The accusation in the young soldier’s words was unmistakable.
Suddenly Shimon clapped his hands together and cleared his throat. “Yes! I knew there had to be some connection between me and all this messy business! Everywhere I go, things start blowing up!”
An uneasy laughter followed his remark.
“So it’s you!” bellowed a man who had been a lawyer in Weimar. “All the time I thought it was me! Every place I went in Germany windows got smashed. Stones thrown! You must have been close by!”
The laughter came with an easy relief as others joined in the game. “It was Shimon Feldstein all the time!”
“That was my business!” Shimon half stood for a bow. He raised his cast above his head. ”What do you expect from a man who plays kettledrums for a living?”
One by one the convoy of buses passed through the heavy gates into the compound. Seventh in the long line, the bus that carried Shimon and Leah was filled with laughter and jokes by the time it entered. Even the bitter young Zionist who had protested against the barbed wire joined in.
***
The five kittens huddled together miserably in the gathering gloom. Wide eyes blinked up at the rabbi from a patchwork ball of fur.
He knew how foolish he was to worry about the kittens when his own life hung by a thread. Still, he could not help it. If the mother cat had not stepped out, I would have done so, and it would be me in pieces now instead of her! Oy! And now they will starve while I go home, God willing, and try to forget about this day! Or they will be eaten by dogs or trampled underfoot. And all because God did not want me shot! Oy! God, you could not have sent out a tomcat to get shot instead? It had to be a mother?
The Eternal, blessed be His name, had left the old man with no choice. When night came—and that would be soon—he would slip out from this place and take the kittens with him. If he could catch them. And,when he got home, he would say kaddish for the mama cat who saved him from certain death.
He clucked his tongue. Little ears perked up in curiosity. The kittens were several feet away. In the narrow crevices he could not stoop to pick them up. This operation must be coordinated carefully with the coming of night.<
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Two stars appeared in the darkening sky. There was little time. The Arabs would feel freer to wander the streets under cover of night. They would shoot whomever they found. They would search the cracks for stray Jews and stray cats, and they would shoot. Rabbi Lebowitz had no doubt of that.
He clucked his tongue again in hopes that the kittens would wander toward him. No luck. He could not tell where one kitten began and another ended.
He wagged his toe at the ball of fluff. It seemed to roll backward, farther from reach. He meowed, without effect. He did not meow like a mother cat and deserved no respect or attention.
Troubled, the old man stared at them. They stared back. Resigning himself to the fact that he was an old meshuggener after all, and that they would have to be left to their fate, he remembered that a failed mitzvah is still honored by the Eternal. He had tried. The kittens would not be saved.
As the minutes ticked by, the old man clucked and meowed again. Futile. Soon the night would fall. Darkness would come to Jerusalem, and then the violence would be renewed. If he ran fast enough, he could make it to the Armenian Quarter, and from here to the Jewish Quarter a hundred yards down the street. If. If. If . . .
If these old legs can move, after such a day. And if the Arabs do not shoot me from behind and the British from the front. And if the Armenians will let me through the barricade! Oy! You have enough to trouble you!
Still, that furry heap against the wall plagued him—innocent creatures who could not fathom the fact that they were going to die or the reason for it.
Wedged into the tight space, he struggled to remove his coat—one arm scraping against the wall, then the other. The kittens jumped and climbed over one another in fear.
He looked up at the sky and asked the Eternal to be patient with such a foolish old man. Slowly he dangled the sleeve of the coat down along his leg. He wriggled it up and down, like bait on the end of a fishing line.
Ears perked up again. Here was something of interest, much like the tail of mama cat. The tough little gray swaggered out of his heap of brothers and sister first. He paused. He crouched. He pounced toward the elusive sleeve.
